Saints
by xSuchSweetNothingx
Summary: My father thought he was saving me when he picked me up from the shelter that my mother had dropped me off at, not realizing that he was actually just pulling me from the only person who has ever made me feel important. I've never forgotten about that boy, but that was a long time ago. He's not here to make me feel alive anymore. I am. Possessiveward. Saintward. Gangward.
1. Light it Up & Burn it Down

**Saints**

___Chapter One :: **Light it Up && Burn it Down**_

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**A/N: **_I ended up merging the original chapter one and two into the big one for the first chapter. You can expect every chapter to come in around 10,000 - 12,000 words from this point on. Because of this, updates will probably come in about every other week._**  
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The car jerks to a stop in the otherwise empty driveway, and though the house is in the exact same state as it was when I left it a few hours ago, it is somehow entirely different.

Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm entirely different.

Because before, pushing through that front door felt like busting through iron cage bars. Stepping outside into the chill of the winter night felt like ridding myself of heavy shackles. Driving away down the street in my white Jeep liberty, headed towards Kensington . . . It was my getaway. It was my escape. It was my freedom.

It was a step towards change; a step out of the shell that I'd allowed my father to stuff me in, concealing my real self with a better version.

But now that I'm back at the house, stuffed in the bed of a different truck, surrounded by intimidating people that I hardly know, it doesn't look like my prison anymore.

It looks like my refuge.

The doors to the truck swing open when the other two trucks pull up behind us, and bodies pile out one after the other. The people around me follow suit, using the sides of the truck as leverage to swing themselves over and out, landing on the ground easily and spreading out over the front lawn. In seconds I'm the only person left in the bed.

This is insane. Why did I ever think that this was a good idea? This isn't me. This isn't how I'm supposed to act.

I'm no criminal.

I'm a straight-A student with a record so clear it would sparkle and shine in a dark room. I'm a sixteen year old with more friends in retirement homes than in my school - only having one friend that I regularly spend time with - with community service hours that would make Mother Teresa's cheeks flush with shame. Not a single curse has passed through these lips, and the same goes for any and all illegal substances. I've never had a non-platonic relationship in my life. I was accepted into a special allied health program that allows me to work with patients in a hospital freshman year, and have successfully continued it every year that followed. I'm going off to my first choice of college next fall with a full scholarship.

I'm the child that every parent wants.

Quiet, intelligent, considerate, and compassionate.

Pleasantly boring.

And as pathetic as that is, and as much as I wish I weren't, it's not something that I can change. Isabella Swan is pleasantly boring.

She doesn't do things like go out past the curfew her father set for her. She doesn't converse with gang members. And she most certainly doesn't try to become one.

More importantly though . . . Isabella Swan doesn't burn down houses.

Especially not her own.

"The fuck are you waiting for?" My eyes dart over to the owner of that voice. I don't know his name. "Get out of the damn truck. I wanna get my dick wet tonight and you're dragging ass," he says crudely, yanking the girl closest to him by her arm into his chest. She chuckles sultrily, tilting her hips backwards, rubbing up against his crotch.

My legs shake as I uncurl them from their pretzel position and stand. I peek over the side of the truck to see how far the fall is.

This truck is monstrous.

It's easily a five foot drop.

A large hand appears beneath my wide eyes, so large that it blocks my view of the ground.

Jake.

A boy that I've known since I was ten years old. A boy that I've tried to fit in the place of another after it happened; after my father adopted me from the shelter where my mother abandoned me. A boy that never quite filled the other's place, but fit well enough for me to pretend that he did.

Enough for me to pretend that he filled the crater that the other boy had left in me.

And now, for this reason, every time I look at Jake I see the fourteen year old boy who'd held me all night every night at the shelter. I see the boy who let me soak his shirt with tears. I see the boy who allowed me to follow him around every day - who never grew tired of my presence.

I see the boy who I fell in love with when I was nine years old. The boy that made me feel wanted. The boy that made me feel safe when gunshots could be heard outside, when nightmares pulled me from my sleep and into his arms.

The boy who broke his promise to me.

Jake is frowning when I look up at him. Disappointed? Annoyed?

"Come on," he urges, moving his hand even closer for me to take.

Angry? Bored? Tired?

I can't tell.

I take his hand regardless, and he helps me to the ground. He lets go and strides over to the rest of the Hell Hounds to stand next to Sam, the leader of the gang.

Jake has stayed next to Sam all night. Maybe he's second in command.

He's never told me much about his gang, and I've never officially met any of them before tonight. I think he's always purposely kept me out of the loop. Then again, the time we spend together is generally shared with my ever-present father, and he certainly wouldn't want _him_ to know that he's in a gang.

Seth, the only other Hound that I know personally, comes up and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "You ain't backing out?" He asks me playfully, although it isn't a question. "Come on! This is easy shit!"

The arm around me is light, but it leads me closer to the rest of the pack.

Aside from Sam and Jake, they're all in motion now. The front door has been kicked in, and I can see people moving quickly from room to room through the windows.

I'd forgotten to close blinds before I'd left.

One of my father's rules is that the blinds need to be closed after seven. Preferably at the exact moment that night falls, but never past seven.

If he hadn't been held up at the station, they would have been. I wouldn't be watching the Hounds rip and tear my house apart, saving only what they wish to keep for themselves, dousing everything else in gasoline from containers that I don't recall seeing before now.

They're very thorough.

I don't think I've ever been more relieved that my father wasn't home than I am in this moment.

I have a feeling that he wouldn't have lived to see the next day. He'd have died before his traitorous daughter.

A shiver runs through my frame.

"You got this, girl." Seth pats my back comfortingly.

Strangely, I do find comfort in this gang member's touch. But then we were playmates as children, so I guess it makes sense. We were close up until he turned fourteen over two years ago – up until he became a member of the pack. Surprisingly, he seems to be the same as he was since the last time we spoke: playful, friendly, and almost puppy-like in his excitement.

I'm not fooled though.

I know that he's just as bad as every other person in this lot.

Jake and I have always been friends. He didn't give me up the way Seth did when he joined the pack, but then that might be because he has a higher rank. Maybe Jake can do whatever he wants, and Seth has to do what he's told.

Will I have to do what I'm told?

I watch as someone lifts up my bedroom window. It's a girl.

"Anything we can sell in there?" Sam calls up to her.

"Guns," she replies. "But they hot, so no. No jewelry. No money." Distracted, she looks at something on the wall next to her.

Her laugh is loud and obnoxious, and then she pops back though the window, sneering as she holds something out. "You some kind'a smartass?" She taunts, shaking one of my plaques around carelessly over the ground. She reads the encryption aloud before dropping it.

I watch as it breaks into splinters on the concrete.

A few other plaques suffer the same death.

When I look back up she's already gone, and now they're all flooding out of the house just as quickly as they'd gone in.

Suddenly a box of matches is in my hand.

I don't know who put it there.

I turn, expecting to find Seth at my side, but there's no one there. Seth is leaning against the mailbox now, at the end of the driveway.

Far away from the house that is about to go up in flames.

When Sam had asked me if I knew what I was getting myself into, I said yes. And when he asked me if I could handle it, I lied. I said yes again.

Because I don't seem like the kind of person who would be a good liar, and probably because Jake knows me and didn't object, and largely because my father is a cop, he didn't question it.

There's no turning back now.

If I chicken out, they'll turn on me. They might even toss me in the house and finish the job themselves.

Gangs love nothing more than messing with the police. What better way is there to screw over a cop, than to pull his daughter into the chaos that comes with being a member of a gang, trashing her promising future, and using her as a pawn to ruin his life?

Starting by destroying his home.

"Alright, Iz," Sam grunts from behind me.

That's not my name. Nobody calls me that. Ever.

I don't like it.

It doesn't sound like me.

I don't turn, but I feel him press entirely up against my back. Two hands come down on my hips, squeezing so tightly that it's nearly impossible to keep myself from wincing.

To stop myself from showing just how weak I really am.

It's definitely going to leave a bruise.

Fingers push locks of hair behind my ears as he leans in. Lips brush my lobe as he whispers, "Light 'er up."

I don't like having him this close to me. I haven't been this close to someone - and in this way - in so long that it feels unnatural. Claustrophobic. I want to step away from him but I know that he won't let go.

I look down at the matches in my hand again.

This is it.

It's a complete mistake, but it's far too late to change my mind.

All I have to do is light a match and drop it.

And then everything after that, but I'm deciding not to think of the future anymore.

I've worried about the future and the past for so long that I haven't been able to live in the present - not that my father ever would have let me anyway.

He has always been too busy trying to make up for his own sins that he never allowed me to commit any of my own.

Everybody has to sin sometime.

If they don't, they might as well be dead.

This might not be my particular preference of sin, but it's a sin nonetheless.

A step towards changing myself.

A step towards happiness - something that I haven't experienced in a long, long time. Not since the last time I saw him.

I pull a match out of the box, and Sam starts moving me closer, each of his own steps forcing my legs forward. He stops when we reach the porch.

I look in through the busted door.

The house is already broken.

It would be almost merciful to burn it down. To put it out of its pain. It could be restored from this, but it would never be quite the same.

I would know.

My father tried to put my pieces back together once he got me out of the shelter in that awful neighborhood. He did it all exactly right, following all the instructions on how to put something broken back together - with glue and tape and staples.

But I'll never be who I once was or who I could have been, because I've lost pieces of myself along the way. I've been worn and torn in places where glue and tape won't stick, and I've been so hardened in others to where staples cannot push through.

On the surface I'm a porcelain doll with wide, innocent brown eyes, and flawless fair skin. It conceals the wreck beneath it, but it does nothing to heal it.

The only real solution is to end it.

And though I never had the courage to do that for myself . . . I can do it for my father's home.

"Go on."

I put the tip of the match against the box, and swipe it quickly across the rough terrain. The fire burns my fingertips because I'm not holding the match correctly.

It's not mercy or intent that causes me to drop the flame on the gas-soaked porch.

It's a natural instinct to release the thing that pains me.

And when a monstrous fire breaks out over the porch, I pull myself from Sam's grip and lurch away from the startling heat. I trip over something, and fall backwards onto the ground a few yards away at Jake's feet.

The house roars and creaks as the fire spreads.

Cheers break out amongst the Hounds. Clearly none of them actually expected me to do it, and honestly, if my fingers weren't being singed as I held the match, I probably wouldn't have done it.

I'm not that bold.

I wonder for a moment why none of my neighbors called the police or came out to see what was going on - why no one ever tried to stop it.

I guess I know the answer.

Because this is a gang. A gang filled with ruthless, horrible people who are incapable of feeling remorse for their actions.

And nobody wants to end up on their bad side.

And while I may now be a member of the gang, I know that I'll never really be a Hound. And I know that there's no way out.

This is my life now.

I hear an engine roar. I look over to the truck, stupidly surprised that we're leaving so quickly. In the same moment that I realize the truck isn't on, I realize, too, that it would probably be a good idea to leave as quickly as possible.

I also realize that it's not only one engine that I hear.

It's several. More than I can possibly count.

"Saints." The word comes from nearly every single one of the Hounds. And they don't simply say it.

They breathe it. Almost as if they can't believe it.

Or maybe just as if they don't want to believe it.

"Saints?" I ask quietly, looking up to Jake from my place on the ground. If that is a noun instead of . . . Whatever else it could be, there's about to be a serious problem.

Jake yanks me up off the ground with a firm grip on my shoulder,then pulls me to his side protectively. "You gotta get outta here," he speaks quickly and I can barely hear him over the increasingly loud engines.

I gulp.

Where am I supposed to go? I don't exactly have a home anymore, and I'll never make it to his house. Kensington is over a half an hour away by car. It would take me hours to get there on foot, and the winter night is only getting colder.

I think I remember the news saying that it's going to snow tonight. It feels so long ago that I was sitting on the couch with my feet propped up on the coffee table before the television, sipping on a cup of tea with my AP Physics homework in my lap, listening to the forecast.

Four to six inches, I remember the woman saying.

I can't walk twelve miles in snow in a white sweatshirt, yoga pants and Uggs.

"Isabella!" Jake snaps, pulling me from my thoughts. His usually brown eyes are black with seriousness. "When they come, they're gonna hit hard."

The Saints. The most feared gang in the state of Pennsylvania. They have territory all over the state, and they don't take lightly to riffraff stepping on it. **  
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The engines are louder now. They must be on the street.

"We're on their dirt. We shouldn't have come here." I think that he's speaking to himself until he addresses me, saying, "You shouldn't have done this, Isabella. You should have just stayed home."

Stiffly, I nod.

My first bad decision might lead to my death.

Beautiful.

He steps in front of me as motorcycles and expensive cars screech to a stop in the middle of the street. "You gotta go. And don't stop running until I find you," he adds quietly. "I'll tell you when. Don't move till I say."

I'm reminded again of the boy I knew, but I push his face out of my mind. Now is not the time.

"Jake?"

He keeps his eyes forward, his arms moving quickly, probably fondling a weapon in his hands. His head tilts only slightly to the side to let me know that he's listening.

"Thank you."

"I told you before, Isabella. I'll never let anyone hurt you." His promise rings out just as strong as it did the first time he said it. "Not till I say," he reminds me. Then the engines are cut, and the vibrations settle in the air.

Silence breaks out over the lot.

Not daring to peek around Jake to see our attackers, I chance a look to the right.

Sam stands with his hand on his back pocket. It's resting on something that's sticking out of it. A handle.

A handle to a gun.

Does everybody have one?

Have the Hounds ever had a run-in with the Saints before? I get the feeling that they haven't, otherwise they'd be more confident, more rowdy in their reaction to their presence.

Also, the fact that the Hounds are still alive is a good indication that these two gangs have never met before.

I've heard rumors about the Saints before in school. The less respectable students speak of them enthusiastically, with admiration, while more respectable students tend to look down upon them with rightful fear.

I once heard a group of guys talking about Alphonse Machetti, the leader of the Saints. Apparently, one of his own members turned against him, threatening his girlfriend or something in an argument. He said that they'd broken out into a fight in the middle of the street somewhere in Phili. The student claimed to have watched as Machetti pounced on him, literally sinking his teeth into his neck and draining his blood until his veins ran dry.

My experience in the medical field - studying anatomy and physiology, working with doctors in the hospital - tells me that this rumor was probably just that - a rumor. But when a tremble runs through Jake – who I've never seen be scared of anything or anyone in all the years I've known him - as a car door opens, I find myself doubtful of my previous conclusion. The likelihood of a person living through something as unsanitary as ingesting another human's blood is slim to none.

But Machetti is foreign to me, and from what I've heard he's survived through even more fatal situations.

Now I really, really want to look around Jake to see what's going on. I don't want anyone to see me, though, so I don't.

A deep, seething voice breaks the silence: "Nobody fucking moves."

A few people repeat his demands, and though they're intimidating, none of them quite compare.

This might be Alphonse Machetti himself.

Which means I should probably say a prayer before I die.

If he'd come only minutes earlier I probably would have been safe. But seeing as lighting the house on fire was my initiation . . . I'm a Hound. And I'm on their territory.

I repeat Jake's promise in my head, trying to convince myself that he will be able to protect me from this much larger and much more dangerous threat.

"Now," the same person as before continues when the others quiet down, "I'm only going to ask this once. And if the answer is in that house," venom saturates his tone, poisoning the air as he hisses, "then I'm going to send every last fucking one of you mother fuckers in there until someone brings out what's mine."

My legs tremble beneath me. I lean into Jake's back, resting my forehead against it as I listen to his rushed breaths. Waiting for instruction.

Waiting for death.

Because whatever this man had hidden in my house was surely burnt to ashes by now.

The house creaks again.

What could he have kept in there? And how could he have managed to sneak it in there?

I guess it wouldn't be hard for someone as criminally skilled as a Saint to sneak into even an officer's house. And I suppose it is a rather good hiding place, seeing as not many people would take the risk of being caught burglarizing an officer's house.

But what could he have put in there that I'd never noticed?

I catch myself starting to sway to the side, my curiosity getting the better of me for a moment. I force myself back against Jake, safely concealed by his taller, bulkier body.

My desire to take in this lethal man's appearance will not cost me my life.

Burning down this house probably will, but that's not something that can be taken back.

And there's still a chance of me getting out of this alive. A slim chance, I'll admit, but a chance nonetheless.

"So listen closely."

Oh, believe me. I am.

"Where the fuck is she?"

She?

Now I am positive that there hasn't been another human being living in my house unbeknownst to me.

He's got the wrong house.

Sam, clearly eager to avoid conflict with the notorious Saints, must think the same thing, because he says, "I think you have the wrong place, man."

"Oh, I can assure you that you don't think at all."

I can't even imagine just how menacing this man must be.

"And I think we all fucking know that this is exactly the right house. Cut the bullshit and just say where the fuck she is."

Seth is the next one to speak, and I instantly get the feeling that he probably shouldn't. "The only girl that lives here is Iz -"

Seth starts to say my first name at the same time the man says, "Doe," cutting him off.

A gust of air fills my lungs at the name, causing me to choke and cough an exhale.

Doe.

I haven't been called that in years. And only one person has ever called me that in my entire life.

Only three people in the entire world would know the significance of that name, one of them being my father, another being the woman that abandoned me in the shelter, and the final being . . .

Him.

Edward.

I don't realize that I have once again tried to move from behind Jake until his hand catches my wrist, pulling me back behind him, reminding me that this man is dangerous.

It wouldn't be difficult for him to get his hands on a file with my birth name on it. He could be smart enough to know that it would be something of value to me.

But he clearly thinks that I'm in that house. And his threat was serious. He would kill them if nobody told him where I was.

Or maybe he said that intentionally. Maybe he knew that I wasn't in there - that I was standing in the crowd, but he didn't want to have to chase me. Maybe he's pretending to be someone that he's not so that I'll come right to him.

But how would he know about Edward?

And why would he want me anyway?

"Nobody's got an answer?" He's infuriated.

He wants to get to me - almost sounding like it's a basic need to know where I am. Like he needs me to be out of that flaming, creaking house. Like he needs me to be alive and well.

Like I am more important than anyone else.

"You want us to take them out, Al?" Somebody asks, and I hear several clicks.

Of guns?

Great.

My eyes flick over to Sam when he starts talking again. He's sweating profusely. The light from the fire exposes the sweat stains down his armpits and his back. "Listen, man, I'm telling you. There ain't no bitch named Doe in -"

He stops speaking all of the sudden. Only a second passes before his body flies backwards. He lands on his back a few yards away.

Somebody steps into my line of vision, directly in front of Sam's gasping body, pointing a gun right at his nose.

He's unreasonably tall, easily six foot four, with heavy, muscular limbs. From this side view I can see that the ball at the end of his nose angles up somewhat. The fullness of his bottom lip makes up for the thin upper lip that is currently stretched over pearly white teeth. Dark scruff covers his sharp jaw, all the way up to his sideburns, where short, dark brown hair lays beneath a Snap-back that rests backwards on his head. His eyebrows are thick beneath it, and his long lashes are tilted downwards, surrounding glaring eyes that I can't see the color of.

Unlike most of the other members of the gang, he doesn't look like a teenager. He has to be over twenty years old.

As inappropriate as it is, all I can think about in the moment that he cocks the gun sideways at my gang leader's face, is just how astoundingly attractive this man is.

I've never been so attracted to anyone in my life.

When he speaks, I know that this is Machetti by the familiar masculinity of his voice. "That's not an acceptable answer, pup. Now you're gonna be the first to go in there searching." He motions between Sam and the house with the gun. "Get the fuck up and get the fuck in there."

Sam stares up at him with wide eyes, his jaw dropped open.

Machetti turns, giving me a nice view of his broad shoulders and narrowed back, and says, "This motherfucker better be deaf."

The gun never falters from the target - Sam's nose.

I imagine how painful receiving a bullet to the face must be. Would the blood drip down to his lungs afterward, suffocating him as further punishment for not giving Machetti the answer that he'd been looking for? Probably.

I wonder if Machetti would do it just for that. Although, if he wanted to go for a painful death by way of bullet wound, I think I've heard that shooting the stomach is the most effective.

Maybe he's just angry and wants to wreck his face.

His finger moves, and it take me a minute to realize what he's doing that has Sam wincing every second.

He's tapping the trigger ever so lightly.

"Would any of you fuckers like to help your brother out?" He asks tauntingly though no less angrily. "All you gotta do is tell me where my girl is."

Seth pipes up again. "I'm telling you, man - the only girl that lives here is Isabella."

He lowers the gun slightly in response. "That's who I'm fucking looking for. Isabella Doe."

Sam's voice shakes as he mumbles, "You mean Isabella Swan?" His eyes flicker between Machetti and I.

No.

He's really just going to hand me over?! I'm supposed to get protection now that I'm officially a Hound!

Jake's hand tightens on the wrist that he never let go. He still hasn't told me to run. That means there's no way out.

And at this point, it's pretty obvious that Machetti is here for me. For what reason, I'm unsure. Since when have I belonged to him?

"It's the same fucking person - where the fuck is she?!"

He's beyond infuriated now.

He's far past murderous.

He seems desperate; his body literally trembles with emotion. "And don't you dare tell me she's in that fucking house," his baritone breaks at the end of the sentence. His eyes tighten, making creases form on the side as he analyzes Sam.

Once again, Sam's eyes flicker to me and back very quickly.

Machetti's head whips to the side.

Stormy grey eyes bore into mine so intensely that even though I want to look down at the ground, to hide myself from his prying gaze, I can't. I'm frozen beneath his stare.

A loud thud is what pulls my eyes from his, and I realize that he's dropped the gun.

His face is awestruck.

His mouth moves, but I don't hear any sound come out.

I don't know what happened in the very next second that caused it, but all of a sudden, everybody is fighting with each other.

Saints against Hounds.

The Saints are much better equipped for this fight. Every single one of them has either a gun or a knife in their hand, and are using it as intended.

This suburban neighborhood is experiencing a lot of firsts tonight. Why hasn't anybody called the police?

This house needs to be put out.

I turn to look back up at Machetti, but in the same moment, Jake steps to the side, shielding me yet again from the Saint's stormy eyes.

"Run!" He orders me quickly.

I find myself confused at the word at first, but then I remember. I take off towards the side of the house, still unsure of my final destination.

"No!" Machetti roars, causing me to glance over at him in the same moment that he shoves Jake out of his way and into another Saint so that he can chase me.

I don't care how ridiculously attractive this guy is.

I am in no mood to die tonight.

I urge my legs to move faster, reminding myself to control my breathing like how I'd learned to in track.

But his legs are much longer than mine, and he catches me in no time at all.

Thick arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back sharply against a hard chest. He's holding me nearly a foot off of the ground. His heart is pounding hard, beating punishingly against my spine with every pump. His breath comes in pants; his mouth must be close to my ear, because I can feel a gust of air against it with every one of his quick exhales.

He's so insanely and inappropriately close to me. He's too close for me to think straight – for me to come up with a plan of attack, or defense.

With a jerk, I'm spun quickly in his arms so that I face him.

Heaving chest to heaving chest.

Pointed nose to button nose.

Our eyelashes might even be touching.

Astonishment deflates my lungs.

Far, far too close. I don't recall ever being this close to another human being in my entire life. I could count the nearly non-existent pores that dot his cheeks if I were so inclined. "Wha -" I can't even finish the question, because my upper lip brushes his thick lower one the second my mouth opens.

His hands are firm on my back, rubbing up and down slightly as his fire-lit granite eyes scrutinize mine. "Why did you run?" He breathes, nudging my nose with his . . . Affectionately?

Complete and utter disbelief drowns my terror.

Did he seriously expect me not to run?

Gang leaders don't typically search out people unless it's with bad intentions.

Strangely, I don't think that Machetti plans on killing me.

Unless he simply missed his calling of becoming an illustrious actor. And he has no reason to pretend anymore – he has me in his grasp. It would be so easy for him to kill me in this instant. All he'd have to do is trail his fingers up my back and then wrap them around my neck.

It'd break with a light squeeze from his hands.

"Doe." He shakes me from my thoughts, physically shaking my body as if to clear my head.

My eyes squeeze shut as my chest constricts. "Don't call me that." My voice breaks.

His eyes scrunch up, not unattractively. He looks as if he's about to ask me a question, but then he seems to let it go. Instead, he slides his hands down, all the way down over my rear – to which I jump – until they are grasping my thighs. Then he pulls my legs tightly around him, and starts walking.

His hands retrace their path – making me jump again – until he tucks my head under his chin . . . Protectively?

Who is this man?!

The chaos is loud but fading.

I'm so tired. My eyes flutter rapidly, my eyelashes brushing his neck as they do.

Lighting houses on fire, being scared for my life . . . It's all so exhausting.

I just barely realize that a car door opens. Then he lowers me down onto a cushioned seat.

I'm out the minute my hair brushes the headrest.

_**~ Sain**__**ts ~**_

_The sun beats down on the truck, making the temperature almost unbearable. I've asked a few times now if they would roll down the windows but have been declined declined every single time. "The air conditioning is on," one of them would say before going back to ignoring me. Unfortunately for me, there are only two vents in this truck, one on the drivers left and the other on the driver's right._

_And I'm sitting in the middle-back seat._

_There's no circulation in here. It's stiflingly hot._

_Uncomfortable, I shift in my seat. The leather material beneath me clings to my skin, making a ripping sound when I lift my thighs up one at a time to un-stick them. Maybe if I'd worn pants instead of shorts I wouldn't feel so gross and sticky, but then that'd only add to the intense heat._

_I don't know where we're going. They won't tell me. "Mom," I try to get her attention. "Are we almost there?"_

_She doesn't respond. Phil is talking, so she's listening to him instead._

_Jealousy flares up in my stomach. Insecurity lowers my eyelids._

_Why can't she love me like she loves him?_

_Why can't I be important, too?_

_The truck slams to a stop abruptly. My seatbelt breaks, failing to stop me from slamming into the plastic-back of the seat before me. The force of the blow leaves me clutching my head. A tear slips from the corner of my eye._

_Nobody asks me if I'm okay._

_"Get out," Phil orders, hopping out of the car himself and shoving the door so forcefully that the entire truck moves when it closes._

_I stumble quickly out of the car, nearly landing face-down on the ground._

_A hand grabs my arm before I fall, and for a moment I honestly believe that Phil is trying to help me. In the next, though, he's yanking me up the steps to a door I've never seen before._

_Possibly the biggest door I've ever actually seen._

_I hear angry voices yelling at each other down the street. I don't want to look. I'm scared._

_He doesn't knock on the door. He shoves it open._

_His grip is only growing tighter on my arm. It's starting to go numb._

_I don't understand what's happening until I look back and see my mother, still sitting in the car, watching. Her face is completely stoic._

_This is it._

_"No," I start pulling away, trying to rip myself from his grip. I reach out towards my mother, screaming, "Please! Don't let him do this!" Why isn't she stopping him? Why won't she help me? "Please; I'll be better, I swear!" I promise her._

_But she and Phil are gone now._

_In the place where my mother had been sitting in a truck, my father stands from his seat in a cop car. He's going to take me from this place._

_Hands rubs my shoulders from behind. I turn to see who it is._

_Edward._

_The boy with ever-changing hazel eyes, wild light brown hair, and offset pouty lips. And a butt-chin that I like to tease him about by calling it that._

_"Oh," I gasp, and spin in his arms to bury my face in his chest. "Don't let him take me, Edward. Please, don't let him take me away from you."_

_"You have to go, Doe," is his response._

_My eyebrows furrow. Every night for the past year he's told me that he'd never let anyone hurt me. He's told me that he doesn't understand how my mother could just let Phil take me away from her – he said he could never let anyone take me away from him._

_That I was too important. That he needed me with him at all times._

_Why is my father an exception to that?_

_"What? No, Edward -"_

_"I'm sorry," he shrugs, taking a step away from me. My arms outstretch towards him, seeking the warmth and protection and love that his body has always offered me. But he takes another step away, saying, "There's nothing I can do."_

_My breaths come faster and faster and my heart beats harder and harder. How could he do this to me? I thought he needed me._

_I thought he wanted me._

_"Please, Edward." I'm begging him now, literally falling to my knees on the ground before him, "Please don't let him take me from you. I need you!"_

_"It's your father, Doe," he sighs, rolling his eyes, "you'll be fine with him. He'll take care of you."_

_"But you said –"_

_His glare cuts me off, and then his words follow, "I don't fucking care what I said. Now go!"_

A vice grip holds me against a steel chest as I claw against it, trying to get closer, still stuck in my dream. "Edward!" I shriek. Ugly tears stream down my face. His image passes through my head and I dig my nails harder into the skin beneath them, "Please!"

"It's okay, baby," a deep voice soothes, "I gotchu."

Heavy hands rub my back comfortingly, every stroke pushing me harder into a strong chest. A familiar scent fills my senses, and I bury my face against a warm neck.

"That's it. I'm here, baby. I'm never gonna let you go again – nobody can take you from me."

Relief spreads through me. Edward has me. He's never going to let me go again. He's never going to let anyone take me from him again. The tighter he holds me, to more my body relaxes against him. I fit perfectly in his arms, in the crook of his neck.

His scent clears my jumbled thoughts, pulling me entirely from my nightmare.

As the dream fades though, I remember that, how it happened in my dream, isn't at all how it happened in real life.

And I also remember that I haven't seen Edward since the day that my father picked me up.

The memories of what's happened hit me like a freight train.

The call where my father told me he wouldn't be home until very late.

Driving to Kensington – going to the pack, asking to become a Hound.

Initiation – burning down my father's home.

Saints showing up.

Me running away.

Machetti chasing and catching me . . . putting me in his car.

I inhale so deeply that I end up choking on it and then I'm scrambling against Machetti to get out of his arms.

He doesn't let me move an inch, "I gotchu, baby – I gotchu."

Why is he doing this? Why is he still pretending?

I know that he is known for his cruelty, but this is just going a little too far. He's supposed to make me suffer a painful death, not a grieving life.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask when I've finally given up trying to get out of his arms. "Why are you pretending – why are you doing this? Just kill me and get it over with!" Instead of being fearful for my life I'm irritated.

No. Not just irritated.

I'm _pissed._

"_Kill_ you," he chuckles, the sound coming deep within his chest. He holds me impossibly closer, his strength making it difficult for me to breathe. My ribs can barely expand in his hold, and they're being sore because of it. "Why the fuck would I do that?"

He shifts, rolling over so that he's laying directly on top of me, his weight pushing me into the mattress. When he's sure that I'm pinned beneath him, he pulls away slightly, allowing me to see the outline of his face in the dim, moonlit room.

He's just as stunning as he'd been the last time I was this close to him. I wonder how long I've been here. I wonder if he did anything to me in my sleep.

"I've spent all this time and money to keep you safe, and you think that I'm gonna finish you off? You've always seen things in a weird way, Doe, but even you should realize how stupid that sounds."

I can't decide if I'm insulted by his words or pleased by the fact that it really doesn't seem like he's gonna kill me. Time and money protecting me? Why?

"What are you talking about?"

He doesn't answer my question. "I made you a promise a long time ago. Do you remember what it was?"

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Edward did make me a promise. But after so many years have passed, with no contact whatsoever . . . What am I to think? "Please don't," I beg. "I can't handle it."

Now it's his turn to ask "what are you talking about?" His calloused fingers caress my eyelids. His intoxicating breath fans out over my face. "Yanno," his tone is conversational at first, "I'd expected you to be happy to see me. Did'ju forget about me or somethin'?"

My eyes open to take in his angry expression. "I don't know you."

His hands turn rough on my face, now holding my jaw so that I don't look away from him like I so desperately want to. "Of course you fucking know me – why are you screwing around?"

This isn't my Edward, and every time he says he is rage burns my veins. My jaw clenches with my restraint. I want to hit him. I want to punish him for pretending to be the person that I want more than anyone else in this world.

The person that clearly didn't feel the same about me.

My control vanishes.

"Stop pretending to be Edward!" I scream at him, pounding at his chest as hard as I can.

This is so, so stupid. Do I have a death wish?

But I can't stop myself. Completely insane, I continue on beating at his chest until his fingers clasp around my wrists and pull my hands up above my head, pinning them against the headboard.

He slides his nose against mine, still angry but less so. His bottom lips brushes my upper one when he says, "I'm not pretending, baby."

Tears fill my eyes. My chest aches. "Please," I whisper back against his lip.

"I'm here. I promised you that I would find you and take you back. And I did."

I shake my head back and forth. "You're not him."

"I am."

"Edward's eyes were hazel. They wouldn't have changed."

"They haven't." He's completely calm now.

Scrunching my eyebrows together, I say, "Yours are grey."

His eyes roll as he responds, "You and I both know that hazel eyes look different at different times." He's not wrong. "They're still fucking hazel – you're being ridiculous. I am myself, and you have no reason to think that I'm not. You wanna see my driver's license or somethin'? My birth certificate?"

"You could have gotten a fake one."

"You're unbelievable." Tantalizingly soft eyelashes brush against my cheek. He kisses his way down my jaw line, his stubble irritating my skin along the way, stopping only when he reaches the corner of my lips. "I miss you so much," emotion is heavy in his words. "You're so beautiful."

"You're not Edward," I say, trying to distract him from what he's obviously about to do. Which is _kiss _me. "You don't look anything like him." He doesn't sound anything like him either

"You've changed quite a bit yourself, Doe," he points out, rolling us back over onto our sides so that we face each other. He trails his right hand down the side of my face, along my neck, past my collar bone, over my left breast.

My breath hitches.

But his hand doesn't stop, instead sliding around my waist, down my spine, over my rear – which he squeezes lightly – and down my thigh. When he reaches the back of my knee he pulls, hitching my leg up and over his hips, sliding his right thigh between both of mine so that it rests against my crotch. "You're so _fucking beautiful_."

This is _so _inappropriate.

Does this _man_ – emphasis on _man_ – not realize that I'm only barely seventeen years old? That his muscular leg is pushing hard up against the crotch of a _minor_? "Urm," I say uncomfortably, "how old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

I ignore the fact that his age does line up with how old Edward would be by this time. With my birthday coming up in only a couple weeks, it would have to be seven years since the last time I saw him.

Instead, I choose to focus on the fact that I was correct in assuming that he is a man. A young one, but a grown one nonetheless. And I'm just a virginal almost-seventeen year old.

The age of consent in Pennsylvania is seventeen. If my father found out that anything happened between us – not that I want anything to happen between us, because I don't - Machetti would end up in jail.

"I'm not particularly concerned with any part of the law, or what goes against it, if _that's _what you're hinting at," he says, taking my silence correctly. "You're mine to do with as I please. There's nothing that could keep me from you now that I've got you back – especially not words on a fucking piece of paper." He scoffs, "And I've done far worse than statutory rape, Doe – and here I am."

I don't want to think about what he's done that's worse than having sex with a minor. And I hate that I worry for a moment if he's had sex with a minor in the past – or with anyone else for that matter. I don't want to think about the fact that he didn't say that I'd misunderstood him, that he _wasn't _planning on making our hostage/captor relationship a sexual one.

What's more important than all of that is the fact that he isn't Edward. And he just needs to admit that. "I'm _yours_?" I stress the second word, my tone sarcastic.

His arms tighten around me possessively. "Yes you're fucking mine. You _know _you are."

"I don't even know you."

"I fucking _told_ you!" He yells loudly, making me cringe away from him. I want to cover my ears but his arms are locked around my body so tightly that I can't move at all. "Why don't you believe me?!"

"Your name isn't even Edward!" I yell back at him, not nearly as intimidating or loud.

"No, it's not," he admits with a roll of his eyes.

"See! I knew it!"

"Edward isn't my _first name_, smart one." My cheeks flush at the insult but it doesn't faze him. "My name is Alphonse _Edward _Machetti."

That makes a lot of sense. I'm tugging on strings to keep my resolve now. Everything he's saying checks out. "But people call you Al," I try, even disappointed in myself when that's all I can come up with.

"A lot of people call me a lot of things, Doe," he answers, "but you're the only one who's called me Edward in a long time – even back then you were one of few. And when you left . . . They called me Al instead." The way he says it makes it sound like there's more to the story, but I'm too set in my denial to question it.

"That would make sense, but you still don't look anything like him."

"Jesus Christ, Doe!" he exclaims, releasing one of his hands from my body to pull at the short strands of his hair. Even though he really _doesn't_ look like Edward, I have to admit he's stunning, even in his anger. Maybe even _especially _in his anger. "The last time you saw me I was fifteen; my fucking balls hadn't even dropped yet! Of course I look different. Why are you being so difficult? Why can't you just be happy to see me?" The more he says, the angrier he gets. His arms squeeze me tighter and tighter. "What do I have to do to prove to you that I am who I say I am?"

He glares into my eyes for a moment before his face smooths out, almost as if he found something calming within them. A calloused thumb brushes my bottom lips, so gently that I find it hard to believe that the phalange belongs to him. "I'm a selfish man, Doe," he says admittedly, but not at all shameful. "I take what I want, and I don't have any regrets about it. And I've wanted you for a long, long time . . ."

What?

"It took me a while to find you," his tone is conversational when he begins again. "Almost a year. You see, I was looking for an Isabella _Doe_ – I hadn't realized that Doe wasn't your father's last name."

My father comes straight from Italy. No full-blooded Italian is gonna have the surname Doe.

"I hadn't realized that you had your mother's," he murmurs.

I squeeze my eyes shut at the mentioning of her name.

Another calloused thumb brushes against my eyelid, working at the same pace as the one on my bottom lip.

"I could kill her for what she did to you, Doe."

My eyes snap open.

Despite the calmness in his voice, the sudden smoothness of his feature, fire burns in his eyes. Hate. "Any woman who could just drop off her daughter on the side of the road . . . Not even just anyone – but _you_, of all people – with your tiny body and big eyes . . . You were beautiful then, too, ya'know? Anybody could have just snatched you off the road, had their way with you and killed you after. You were so tiny, I bet it wouldn't even have been hard to hide your body –"

"What are you talking about?" I interrupt him. What my mother did to me was wrong, abandoning me as she did, but she didn't just drop me off on the side of the street to die. "My mom dropped me off at a shelter."

Pain.

Sympathy.

Tenderness.

They transform his face into a more familiar one.

This really is Edward.

The acceptance of his identity clears my mind of all thoughts of my mother, and suddenly I'm the one holding him as tightly as my much smaller muscles allow.

It's Edward.

It's _my _Edward.

He found me and he took me.

Like he said he would.

He really does want me.

"There you are," he murmurs into my ear, nuzzling his nose in my hair, inhaling deeply.

We lay this way for a while, until I remember something that he had said earlier. "When did you figure out where I was?" I ask.

"You were eleven."

He stayed away for nearly six years! Insanity! "Why did you wait so long to come to me?"

He sighs, pulling away from me slightly, chuckling when I struggle to keep him close. "I was going to take you that first night," he whispers. "I picked the lock on the front door, went upstairs and found you in your room, asleep. You were tossing and turning - just like you always had – calling for your mother at first, and then for me. You always called for me, Doe," he says seriously, rubbing my bottom lip again. "You've always called for me in your sleep. I'd wake up a hundred times every night to find that you'd broken out of my grasp, rolled over into isolation. You kicked and screamed and pleaded. You only ever calmed down when I pulled you back. Sometimes people would come running in cause you were so loud, wanting to see if you were alright. But you only ever wanted - needed me."

I remember this.

I woke him up so many times every single night because of the nightmares that have plagued me for most of my life. Sometimes, after he'd calm me down, I'd realize that he had claw marks on his arms from where I'd scratched him in my attempts to get closer to him. He was never angry, though. He never acted as if it bothered him. He'd just pull me as close as he could and hold me until we both fell asleep.

Until it happened again.

"You would suck my thumb sometimes," he muses. "Hard, too." The thumb that had been brushing my lip finds its way inside my mouth then. It rubs against the fronts of my teeth and gums before moving to the back of my mouth, over my molars.

I turn my head in an attempt to dislodge it.

It feels . . . strange.

But he hooks it around my teeth, which he uses as leverage to steer me back to him. "What are you lookin' at? I'm right here," he says, going back to exploring my mouth. The rough skin of his thumb caresses my tongue. Sliding back to front and then back again, going deeper and deeper into my mouth with every stroke. "Do you remember that, Doe?" He asks me, "Do you remember how you used to suck my thumb instead of yours?"

My cheeks burn. This is humiliating.

I'd always sucked my thumb as a child – something my peers found hilarious in first and second grade, before my mother pulled me from school and dropped me off at the shelter. Edward had teased me for it, too, for a while. But one night I woke up facing him, his thumb in my mouth. I'd scrambled away from him, just as humiliated as I am now, apologizing profusely. He'd called me back to bed though, saying that it was fine – even putting it back in my mouth when I'd settled next to him.

"Do you still suck your thumb at night, baby?" He asks, not unkindly.

I don't answer his question. There's no need to, and his thumb holds my tongue down to keep me from answering.

Thumb-sucking is a calming and comforting gesture, two things that I never received from my mother as a child, which is what led me to do it so long after most children stop. They're two things that every child needs in their life. Two things that I had to offer to myself up until Edward came into my life, and gave me that and everything else that he had to offer. Which just so happened to be everything that I've ever needed in a person.

"Do you still want mine instead?"

Our eyes lock. I can barely see them in the darkness, but they're his, so it doesn't matter.

His arm is loose around me now, his thumb still stroking my tongue. I reach up with both hands and wrap them around his wrist. A lazy smile pulls at the corner of his lips as I pull his thumb out of my mouth, holding his hand over my rapidly beating heart instead. "Why did you wait so long, Edward," I say, reminding him of what he'd been talking about earlier.

His eyes still linger on my mouth, but he continues, "I took a look around your room – Doe, you had trophies in there. Plaques, too, for being smart and talented in all kinds of things."

"My father got me involved in so many activities when he first brought me home," I explain. "I think he wanted to keep me busy so that I wouldn't think too hard about things. Swimming, dance, gymnastics –"

"_Gymnastics,_" he cuts me off, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"You're extraordinarily crude," I inform him, making him chuckle. I love his laugh. "But go on."

Edward's still smiling when he continues, "You were doing so much, and had accomplished so much in so little time. Don't get me wrong," he says, "I always knew you were smart – with your big and fancy vocabulary, and how you always knew something about everything, but I never realized just how smart you were." Pride etches his face. "You're exceptional, Doe, and when I saw all that shit – I mean, stuff," he corrects himself, although I hadn't been offended, "I knew that you were going somewhere. That you were really gonna be someone. And I knew that the moment I had you in my arms . . . I wasn't gonna let you go."

I've never wanted him to let me go. Does he not realize that I've yearned for him all this years? That he's made a permanent residence in the depths of my mind, constantly reminding me that I'm supposed to be with him?

Because I have and he has.

I even miss him now that he's here.

"You never would have finished school – you would have joined back up with me and the gang, and that would have been it."

Joined _back_ up? As in I'd been a member of the Saints _previously_? "Okay," I drop his wrist to press my hands against his chest, wanting his full attention even though I already had it. "What do you mean by _'join back up'_?"

Mouth set in a tight line, he analyzes my features. It seems almost as if an hour has passed before he finally says, "You've forgotten a lot."

"_What?_"

He just shakes his head. "Anyway, as I was saying, I knew you were gonna be big. But I knew you had to finish school to get to where you're meant to be. And you're no gangster, Doe – you're so much better than that."

But I'm still set on what he'd said before. "What have I forgotten?"

"Drop it." His tone is strict.

I get the feeling that he's not going to tell me. "Why won't you tell me? Don't you trust me?" I'm starting to get paranoid. What happened that I don't remember, and why wouldn't he want to tell me about it?

It's clearly very important to him, because he's disappointed that I don't remember whatever it is he's talking about. I don't _think_ that I've forgotten anything of our time together, but then again, if I _have _forgotten things . . . I would have no way of knowing.

The memories simply wouldn't be there.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to tell you," he answers my first question.

Why not the second? Does he really not trust me? Does he not think that I can handle the truth?

I start scrambling away from him, but when he realizes my intent his arms lock around me once again. "Where are you goin'?" He asks. "I'm right here."

Just like what he said earlier when I looked away from him, I realize. "Why won't you tell me?"

He sighs loudly, flopping over onto his back and dragging my body over top of his so that one of my legs rest between both of his, and one of his mine. He plays with my hair as he crosses his ankles over mine so that I have no way of escaping. "Listen," he orders, and I look at him.

I can see him better from this angle. The light from the moon fans out over his face from the open shades of the window to my left.

Where are we, anyway?

I don't get the chance to ask him.

"If you've forgotten about all that shit . . . It's probably for a good reason, Doe. And until I figure out what that reason is . . ." he trails off, pressing a kiss to my forehead before continuing, "I think it's better for you to just remember things the way that you remember them now."

I have no idea what to say to that.

He's probably right. I've been through a lot in my life – with my father not wanting me after finding out about my impending birth and my mother abandoning me after it, and everything in-between and after those major events. At least that what my memory tells me, but apparently it's traitorous, so maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe I actually have no idea what I've been through.

"Hey," Edward's voice pulls me from my thoughts, "there's no reason for that. It's okay, baby girl."

It takes me a full minute to understand why he's saying that.

I've given myself a panic attack – literally shaking in his arms, looking anxiously around the room, breathing heavily. I have got to calm down. He's gonna think I'm a freak. "I'm sorry," I say sadly, hiding my face against his neck.

"Don't be." He continues to play with my hair soothingly until my heart rate settles and my body relaxes against him. "That's it. There's no reason to get so upset."

I laugh sadly to myself. "You probably think I'm the biggest spaz."

"You've had a rough night – you're entitled to a few freak-outs tonight."

That doesn't make me feel any better so I say, "Thanks," sarcastically.

He chuckles, "I didn't mean it like that. You watched those rookies burn down your house. You must have been so scared," he breathes into the hair at the top of my head. "I'm sorry we didn't get to you quicker. We were –"

"They didn't burn down my house."

His hands still. "_Huh?_"

"Yeah," I sit up, untangling my legs from his and am surprised when he lets me go easily for the first time all night. I laugh nervously, running my fingers through my hair. A nervous habit. "Um, that was kind of me."

"_What_?" I don't think I've ever seen Edward look so . . . Dumbfounded. "_You_ burned it down? _Why the hell _would you do _that_?" Doubt covers his features. He can't believe that little innocent Isabella Doe burned down her own house.

_I _wouldn't even believe me. But it's the truth. "It was my initiation –"

_"Initiation?!"_ He roars.

This isn't Edward anymore.

I'm staring into the eyes of Al Machetti, the leader of the Saints.

Too quickly for him to stop me, I jump off of his lap, landing on my feet next to the bed.

He nearly as angry now as he was last night, only this time . . . It's directed towards me. This is a level of ferocity that I've never witnessed before in my entire _life._ I'm half-waiting for him to start foaming at the mouth.

He sits up, glaring at me as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. "By initiation, I _know _you mean that you did it because they were threatening to kill you if you didn't. _Right?_"

Should I lie?

I could, but Edward has always seen right through me. And I've never lied to him before.

And Al Machetti doesn't seem like the kind of man that appreciates dishonesty.

"Well . . . _actually . . ._" I don't want to lie to him, but I _can't_ tell him the truth.

Warningly, he hisses, "_Doe. _This is not a complex question. Just say, '_Yes, Edward, the mutt said he would _kill_ me if I didn't set my house on fire'. _Now say it,"

Technically, they would have killed me if I didn't do it. They just never said it.

He doesn't give me the chance to say that though, because then he's right in my face and I'm slammed up against the wall. "What the _fuck_ are you doing trying to join _a gang_?" Spit splatters my face as he bellows the words out.

The corners of my eyes burn from just how _open _they are.

"I was –"

"You better have a _damn good excuse _for that _bullshit_!"

_Excuse_ me? "Says _a gang leader_," I stupidly retort. My hands instantly fly over my mouth. Why would I say something like that when he's in this state? I'm not that daft.

"It's different and you fucking _know it_!" Red flushes his otherwise tanned cheeks. "You've got your whole life ahead of you and you would throw it all away for – what? A streak a rebellion? _Chi __sei__ tu? La __mia__ragazza__ non __avrebbe__ mai . . ._ Explain, Isabella. Now. Because I'm not seeing what's so wrong in your life that would justify you doing something as fucking asinine as joining some bullshit street gang."

My jaw drops. "I don't need to _justify _my decisions to you, and, you know what?" I yell, pushing hard against his chest, only making him move a fraction of an inch away from me – just enough for me to duck out of his hold. "Fuck you," I spit for the first time in my life. "I don't see you for _seven years_, and you think that you can just pop back up and _criticize _me?!"

"If you didn't do that, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Yeah," I say bitterly, "Because you wouldn't have come back for me."

Silence.

He can't deny it and he knows it.

He's the one who chose to stay away from me.

"And you know _what?_" My voice breaks on the last word, and I already regret what I'm about to say. It's a total and complete lie, but it doesn't feel like one when I scream it. "Maybe you _fucking _shouldn't have!"

I'm on a roll with the foul language today.

His head falls back and his booming, patronizing laugh shakes the frame of the room. I literally feel the floor vibrate beneath my feet. "That's fucking _rich,_ Doe. You and I both know you _need _me."

The audacity of this man . . . The arrogance.

The only thing more frustrating is the fact that, no matter how much I want to deny it . . . No matter how much I wish it weren't true . . . He's entirely right.

Edward has always been all that I need. I've always yearned for him, even when his distance and failure to come to me broke my heart. I'd never given up hope that he would come back, and I knew that if he never did, I would always feel his absence. Even when if I was a grown woman, with a lovely husband and beautiful children, with a high-paying job and nice belongings . . . I would never feel complete if he weren't in my life.

And it doesn't seem to mean _anything _to him.

In this moment . . . _I _don't seem to mean anything to him. And the idea of me not being important to Edward is so foreign to me that I'm left speechless.

Even when he didn't show for the past seven years, I never doubted that he wanted me, because he always has. I'd assumed that he had been busy, or couldn't find me, or, as ridiculous as it is . . . I'd considered the idea that he'd died trying.

Hurt fills my entire being, literally making me feel as if he just slapped me across the face.

A slap instead of a punch because there's an air of utter disrespect that is conveyed in a slap that isn't found in a punch. It's as humiliating as it is painful, and it burns as much as it throbs.

I want to cry, but at the same time I want to make him hurt the way I do. But I'm not strong enough to hurt him. I only have his emotions to play on. "I liked you better when you were fifteen."

"Ouch." His eyes roll.

"You think you can just hold me hostage here? Has it never occurred to you that _I don't want to be here_?" It's a total lie, but there is some validity to it. I have tried to wretch myself from his hold multiple times – he simply never let me go. "Because I was under the impression that I was making it pretty obvious all the times I tried to get away from you."

"And the opposite – the _truth_," he stresses the word, "was revealed when you first woke up. When you were all fucking over me, just like you always have been." Humiliation floods my cheeks, but he doesn't stop there. "And even if what you said _was _true . . . You won't be getting out of here anyway."

"What are you planning to do?" I ask, doubtful. "Tie me to the bed?" My eyes roll.

"If I have to," he says, uncaring. "This conversation is over, now. You're going to tell me what you thought you were doing -"

"I believe I said: _'Fuck. You'.'_'

Stalking. That's what he's doing now, circling me as he is, malice darkening his eyes. "Do you know what they _do _to girls they _initiate_?" He asks me.

"All I had to do was burn down the -"

"That's a bunch of _bullshit_," he distinctly pronounces each word. "And if you don't realize what happens to pretty little girls like you when they want to join big bad gangs – well, you already know you have no business doing that."

He's already made it glaringly obvious that he doesn't care for me nearly as much as I'd thought he had. There's no reason for him to even be responding like this. "Why do you even _care?_"

Then I'm up against another wall. I can see the window from over his shoulder.

"Do you have no idea _what you are to me?_"

The words elicit immediate relief in me.

His chest heaves against my face as he towers over me. His fingers are clawed against the wall, and his muscles are all bunched up, tense.

I get the urge to touch his arm, to trace the vein that pokes out there, trailing all the way from his shoulder to his wrist. I give into my desires, feeling just as tired now as I had earlier tonight, when Edward had placed me in his car.

It's so strange how everything has changed so monumentally since then.

His muscles tense at first, but then relax beneath my fingertips as I trail them feather-light over his skin. He's so soft here.

And so, so warm.

Stepping towards him, I lean into his incredible warmth, allowing it to envelope me even though his arms don't. I wrap mine around his waist.

We stand there like this for an eternity.

I'm nearly asleep by the time he picks me up from beneath my arms and lays me down on the bed. And when his body spoons mine, and his thumb starts stroking my lips just as they have before, I know that even though I'm not forgiven . . . That even though he's still mad . . .

Edward is here, and wants me just as much as he always has.

* * *

_When the light started out they don't know what they heard,_

_Strike the match, play it loud, giving love to the world,_

_We gonna let it burn, burn, burn, burn, (burn, burn),_

_Burn, burn, burn, burn, (burn, burn),_

_We can light it up, up, up,_

_So they can't put it out, out, out,_

_We can light it up, up, up,_

_So they can't put it out, out, out._

**_- Elli Goulding :: Burn -_**

* * *

_**A/N: **This story is way out of my element, but when the idea hit me, it hit me hard, so I just had to play it out._

_I've got about half of the next chapter finished already, so that should be out by sometime next week._

_Oh, I really hope you loved it. Because I really, really do. There's a lot of me in Doe. _

_Unfortunately, I don't have Saintward for myself, but . . . Maybe someday I'll have someone even better._

_You know the drill :: follow, review, share/recommend && favorite as you please!_

_As always, I am forever grateful for all of your support!_

* * *

**_~ Madison ~_**


	2. Tattoos, Phone Calls & Accusations

**Saints**

_Chapter Two :: **Tattoos, Phone Calls && Accusations**_

* * *

When I wake for the second time, it's under much better conditions. Instead of screaming, scratching and scrambling, I wake to the feeling of a long, hard body lined up against my back, thick arms wrapped around me, and deep breaths at my ear, with sunlight streaming in through the open blinds of the window.

And I know exactly who all of these things belong to. Edward.

Perfection. Absolute perfection.

Instinctively, I stretch, noticing when his arms tighten slightly around me. The corners of my lips pull up at the realization.

Complete and utter perfection.

It's so perfect that I can pretend for a moment that _everything _is perfect. For just a moment, Edward isn't upset with me. I didn't burn down my father's house. I never tried to join a gang. Edward didn't wait seven years to come back into my life. My mother never abandoned me. Phil never came into her life. My father wanted me upon conception.

For just a moment, I'm just a normal girl in the arms of an extraordinarily appealing man.

A man that I'm only just realizing has a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Because of the angle, I can't read what it says, but I can see that it's written in small, cursive letters. I turn my head slightly, trying to see it better, but it only results in his arms tightening around me again, which obscures my vision of the cursive entirely.

Curiosity gnaws at the edges of my mind, and though I don't want to wake him up . . . I have to see what he's marked himself with. Feather-light, I trail my fingertips along his skin, moving from his rough elbow, through the hair that dusts his forearm, down over the back of his hands until my fingers slip in between his.

"Hm," he sighs, his breath sending my hair into my face. It tickles my nose.

Gently, I turn his hand over so that his palm is face up.

I read the cursive lettering before he can turn it back over.

**_Doe_**

My eyes flutter and my breath whooshes out of my lungs. My name . . . He tattooed _my name_ into his skin? _Permanently?_

That's not just flattering . . . It's positively _insane!_

Edward and I have always had something special – something that's so undeniable that it could be etched into the earth, the stars, the sun, and everything after that. I could write it on a letter and put it in a bottle, send it across the sea to inform foreign lands of our somewhat co-dependent existence.

But getting a tattoo of a name . . . There's only two reasons that someone would get a name permanently etched into their _skin_. The first and most prominent would be a parent getting their child's name tattooed onto them. While it is extreme, it makes sense. No matter what, that person whose name marks you is important. Their your blood – they're a literal half of you. The other, more controversial reason to get a name tattooed onto you is for your romantic interest. A girlfriend or boyfriend at times, and a spouse at others. This is more risky, seeing as there may come a time when you no longer harbor romantic feelings towards this person.

Especially when there comes a time that you have feelings for someone else, and you have to explain why they're left looking at your ex's name. Now, I've never been in a relationship, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't make me happy if my boyfriend had some other girl's name on him, claiming him as her own.

But neither of these reasons apply to what Edward and I have.

We've never been more than close friends.

We have a connection that might rival most marriages, but we've never been more than what we were.

So why would he even consider the thought of scarring himself with my name? And he criticizes me for making a bad decision . . . My father can get another house.

Edward can't just go out and get new skin. I mean, I suppose he _could_ get it removed, but that's an extraordinarily painful process and leaves scars in the ink's place.

But more interesting to me than the fact that it's permanent, and the fact that it's _my _name, is the reasoning behind it. What made him want it? How long did he think it over before he got it, and how old was he at the time? Did he realize what he was doing?

Does he regret it _now_?

What if one day he meets a girl and falls for her? I've never considered the idea of Edward being with someone else, but we've never been together romantically, and that's certainly something that both of us want. Well, it's something that I want.

And I anticipate, especially after last night, that Edward will always be a part of my life. What will I tell my future husband when he asks why my name is tattooed on another man's skin – a man who is clearly still important to me?

The idea of being with anyone but Edward is so strange. I've never considered it before.

While I probably shouldn't have, I have to admit that I've thought about what it would be like for Edward and I to be together. Granted, I'd never thought of him as a man, as he was about fifteen the last that I saw him, so my musings obviously fell short from reality. But I imagined that we'd be good together.

He'd love and want and care for me just as he always has. Like he has from our beginning.

And I'd love and want and care for him just as I always have. Like I have from our beginning.

He stirs suddenly, startling me. His hand falls back against my stomach. He groans as he stretches his body out, not moving away from me at all as he does so.

He's coming to consciousness.

My eyes close.

Oddly, I decide that I don't want to bring up the tattoo right now. He was angry enough last night – I don't need to do anything to set him off.

And it seems that it doesn't take much to set him off.

"Doe," he whispers into my ear, pulling me impossibly closer to him. "It's time to wake up."

Pretending to have been asleep, I stretch my arms out and yawn before turning my head to lock our eyes. Bluish-green today. And being so close, I can see the familiar brown rings around his pupils.

A loud ringing breaks the silence, making me realize just how close we'd grown in our gaze. My lips couldn't have been further than a centimeter away from his.

He releases me, rubbing his eyes as he rolls over to the side table on his side of the bed.

Is this his room?

I examine the layout as he picks up the phone with an intimidating, "_What_?" Clearly he didn't appreciate the interruption.

The walls are painted – they're not painted at all. They're pure concrete.

It explains the immense hardness of the wall that most likely bruised my back when he shoved me up against it last night.

The floor is – _also_ concrete.

What _is _this place? This couldn't possibly be a house. At least not a finished one.

Something Edward says grabs my attention, and when I look over at him I see that he was already watching me. "I've been doing you a service, you see." His voice isn't just confident, it's arrogant. He continues, "I've given you the chance to develop a relationship with her. I could have taken her at any time I chose – but I didn't. I let you hold onto her for a while."

He isn't . . . He isn't talking to my father, is he?

How? How does my father have his _cell phone _number?

_I _don't even have his cell phone number, and I just slept with him!

"I kept up my side of the deal, Charles. I did as I said I would – I protected her."

_What?_ _The deal?_

My eyebrows furrow, and I move so that I'm sitting pretzel-style next to him.

He pulls at a strand of my hair, analyzing my features as he says, "You're indebted to me, and you always knew that I was going to collect someday."

My father's response is so loud that I can hear it. "You_ took her?! You lying son of a bitch! You were supposed to -"_

Edward ignores him completely, solely focused on me. "And last night was it, Charles. She's not safe in your hands, and so I cannot in good judgment trust you with her."

"_Not safe? What the fuck are you talking about?"_

"You didn't know?"

He wouldn't.

The look on his face tells me he would.

He couldn't.

The smirk on his lips tells me he could.

He won't.

The gleam in his eyes tells me he will.

And he does.

"Little Isabella Cordone here tried to join a gang last night," Edward informs him.

This is my punishment. And it's the worst form of it.

"What?!"My father exclaims, his Italian accent growing thicker, "_Isabella would _not _involve herself with the likes of you!"_

"Not the Saints, Charles. The Kensington _Hounds_."

_Stop,_ I mouth at him, giving him a warning glare.

All he does is smirk knowingly, and wave his hand dismissively in the air. "I don't suppose you realize who is responsible of the destruction of your house."

Oh.

No.

He.

Didn't.

While I hadn't fully thought out the consequences of my actions – which is actually extraordinarily unlike me – I didn't think that my father would find out about what I'd done from someone else.

I'm not entirely sure that I'd ever considered him finding out anything at all.

However, if I did, I know that I would have come to the conclusion to tell him myself. And _Edward_ is ruining that plan. "You have _no right!_" I whisper-yell at him.

"Yes," he answers both my father and myself, "and seeing as she's supposed to be under _your _protection after seven o'clock, that's on your conscious, and not mine."

The line is silent.

"And," he continues, "since she is _mine to take_ to _begin_ with, and because I am obviously more capable of protecting her -"

"_You can't_ –"

Edward acts as if he hadn't spoken at all. "I do believe that it is time for me to collect on my debt. So consider your debt absolved from this point forward."

"_No – anything else! Take me, instead!" _My father's begs, and my heart suddenly aches for him. While I have never forgiven him for what he did to me – or rather what he hasn't done for me in my life – I do not hate my father by any means.

In fact, I love him a great deal. And this is so, so wrong. He doesn't deserve this.

How could Edward do this to him?

How could _I _do this to him? Why had I wished all these years for Edward to take me away?

How could I not have considered what it would do to _him_?

Edward chuckles mercilessly, "Goodbye, Charles," and presses the '_end'_ button on the phone. Then the man has the audacity to smile at me, acting as if he hadn't just hung up on my crying and pleading father. He reaches out, probably to pull me into him and resume what we'd been doing previously.

I smack his hand away. "That was _cruel_," my voice breaks on the word, "Edward. That was absolutely cruel."

"Well you certainly won't be trying to –"

"No," I shake my head, "there is no way for you to justify what you just did. I don't know the extent of your relationship with my father, but I can assure you that he's never done anything deserving of such _inhumane _treatment."

His smile and arrogance fades, his eyes going hard, "And burning down his house was an act of _kindness_."

Disappointment. That's what I feel pulling me down, making my limbs heavy and my eyes watery. "You were mad at _me_, Edward." I point my finger into my chest, clarifying, "Me." The tears break over the edges of my lids and tumble down my cheeks. "How _could _you?"

I push myself off the bed and walk over to the – metal? – door in the room.

Just as my fingers touch the handle of the metal door that apparently slides _into the wall_ – seriously, what is this place? - he hisses, "Where the fuck do you think _you're _goin'?" I hear him hop off the bed and stalk over towards me, his feet slapping the ground as he goes. His hand presses flat against the door to my right keeping me from opening it.

"I just – I need . . ." I trail off, closing my eyes and resting my forehead against the door as the realization that he's not going to let me leave this room hits me. I'll never be able to slide the door open with the force he's exerting against it.

My hand drops back to my side.

"You need _what_, Doe?" he hisses. "What do you _need _that you can't find in this room?"

_Space._

I don't answer him. My body slumps forward, cheek resting against the cold metal. Why is he still so angry with me? Was that not my only punishment? Does he not feel that ruining my image to my father is enough?

Because I certainly do.

He spins me around with a firm grip on my shoulder. The eyes that glare into mine appear light brown in the absence of light, and I note that I've never seen irises as unique as his in the past.

"I understand that you're unhappy with my previous decision," I say quietly, glancing down at the concrete beneath my bare feet.

Where are my shoes?

Clearing my throat, I continue, "But I don't think that this is a reasonable reaction."

"What do _you _suppose is a _reasonable reaction_, then, Doe? Huh?" Spit splatters my face. I ignore that, though – and his morning breath, too – waiting for his answer. "You agreed to _burning down your own home! _And even worse, you don't even _realize what else you would have had to do _to become a member of a gang!" He digs into his short hair, yanking hard against it in his frustration. I'm surprised there are no bald spots when the offenders drop back down to his sides. "How could you not know?"

"How could I not know _what_, Edward?" I ask him, "What else do you think that I would have had to do? All Sam said was –"

"Do _not _speak _his name_."

I resist rolling my eyes.

I don't remember him being so dramatic in the past.

"Ok, well what _they,_" I emphasize the word with a pointed stare, "said, was that I'd have to burn the house down. And that was it."

"You're so _innocent_."

"Apparently not so much," I say, referring to my new pyromaniac status.

He glares at me. "Do you not know what big bad gang leaders do to pretty little girls like you?"

Monotone, I respond, "Capture them and keep them hostage in a basement," I guess, not actually knowing where we were. It does look like an unfinished basement, but I can't imagine that someone with as much money as Edward would make a permanent residence in a place like this.

Unless he was donating all of his money to charity, or something, but I think everyone knows he's not that kind of man.

My sarcasm actually breaks him a bit, making a laugh escape from deep in his chest. "In some cases, yes, I guess they do," he admits. "But then I never claimed to have good intentions, Doe."

I gulp.

"And _they _didn't either. When a girl wants to join a gang – well, initiation can go a couple different ways," his tone turns informational instead of angry. "One, everyone in the gang can jump you – fuck you up to see how strong you are. To see how bad you want it."

I gulp again.

"Sometimes for girls, though, they only make the girls of the crew go at her. Two, you get sent to do a few missions, but they're most likely set ups, and they had to have known that, even if you got caught lighting the house up you wouldn'ta gotten in too much trouble. With your dad being Chief of Police," he twirls his finger in the air, rolling his eyes.

I don't understand the gesture, but I don't question it either.

"And three – what they planned to do to you . . ." He trails off, caressing the side of my face. ". . . Was _fuck_ you in."

My eyebrows shoot up. "What does that mean?"

Something smashes against a different wall in the room, and after the thought that we're under attack passes my mind, I realize that Edward's entire body is trembling, and that the same phone I'd seen earlier is lying on the floor.

The screen is completely shattered.

"Damn it, Doe!"

My head whips towards him so fast that I get a kink in my neck. _Ow!_

"It means that each and every one of those _dogs _would have had a turn -"

He can't even finish the sentence.

He doesn't have to.

My hands fly to my mouth.

They would have _raped_ me?! Even _Jake?!_

Oh my god. That's why he'd been acting that way. He knew what was going to happen. Why didn't he warn me? Why didn't he stop me? Why didn't he _refuse _me?

Aside from Edward, Jake has been a constant source of comfort and protection in my life, ever since my father introduced us at a barbeque, only a few days after I'd settled into his home. While, in some ways, Jake filled Edward's role in his absence, they were both actually very different.

Where Edward had always been controlling in his protection of me, Jake hadn't been – simply following along on whatever path I chose to take in my life, making sure that he had my back if it ever got too bumpy.

Where Edward had always kept me constantly within his reach, only letting me out of his eyesight to do things like use the restroom and bathe, Jake had always given me my space. He always gave me the chance to experience things without him, and he never complained about it later on, like Edward would have.

Where Edward had always gone above and beyond to tend to my emotional wounds – not so much physical, seeing as I've never been tragically injured – sometimes even going so far that eyebrows would raise, Jake always gave allowed me to work through my problems by myself. He wouldn't squeeze me against him as I cried the way that Edward would, or tell me that everything was okay, or tell me that he had me – all things that lead me to care for Edward as I do now. Instead, Jake would sit silently by my side as I cried and fought my demons, ready to listen but never prying for information.

Where Edward and I had a physical, emotional and truly abnormal connection, Jake and I had a far simpler one, but a connection nonetheless. So, how could he allow me to pledge myself to a gang when he knew what awaited me in the future?

Because Jake isn't Edward.

Jake doesn't tell me what to do. He respects my ability to make my own decisions. He respects my right to make my own mistakes.

And in a way . . . I can appreciate that. I am my own person, and while at times I do wish that Edward respected that fact more than he does . . . But at the same time, it proves to me that I've been foolish thinking that I could rely on Jake the way that I have Edward.

It also diminishes my feelings of betrayal.

It's not Jake's fault that I did what I did. That I snuck out past curfew. That I begged a _gang _leader to allow me to join them. That I willingly gave said gang leader my father's address. That I sat by and watched as strangers destroyed my father's home. That I set fire to my father's home.

And it most certainly isn't his fault that I hadn't questioned what else I would have to do to get in with the Hounds.

It's mine. It's entirely _my _fault.

"_Oh,"_ I gasp.

Big, fat tears roll down, caressing my cheeks and the sides of my nose as they followed their course down my face. Seeking comfort, I lean into Edward – quickly soaking his white wife-beater.

"If I hadn't gotten there before you guys left . . ." He holds me close, his lips brushing my forehead as he speaks. "If even just _one_ of them fucking _touched _you, Doe . . . I'd kill every last one of them. And I'd make them fucking _suffer._"

A shiver runs through my skeleton.

"If _anyone _touches you, Doe, _ever_," he says seriously, tilting my face up to his lightly from beneath my chin, "they're dead."

When he releases me, I bury myself back into his chest and let go of everything that has built up since I broke out of my house yesterday. I cry for myself. I cry for Edward and Jake and my father.

I've made such a mess of things. And there's really no way for me to fix it.

I was supposed to be the perfect child.

Look at me now.

_**~ Saints ~**_

When Edward offered me his shower I eagerly requested, ready to rid myself of the sweat and tears that I'd accumulated over the past few hours. And now that I'm drowning in his t-shirt and boxers, smelling exactly like him thanks to his body wash, I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the entire situation.

Not two days ago, I'd been without Edward for seven _years_. After all that time apart . . . how is it that we just jump right in where we left off? Actually, that's not even right! We've jumped into something much bigger!

Something completely foreign to me.

"What are you doin' over there?" Edward notices me standing in the frame of the sliding metal door from his place on the bed.

I've been watching him for a while. Sitting in a concrete room on the bed we'd slept in, messing around with his phone that is suddenly unbroken? "Where did that come from?" I ask him, moving over to take a seat next to him.

"I have more than one phone," he answers simply as he pockets it.

"All the same?"

"Why mess with a good thing?"

I shrug, playing with a strand of my wet hair. I'm still upset with him for what he said to my father. It really wasn't his place to do that. Obviously, I shouldn't have done what I did. But since when have two wrongs made a right?

Then I remember a question I'd had earlier. "How do you and my father know each other?"

Edward sighs heavily and flops down on the bed. He stares at the ceiling as he speaks. "After that first night, the first night that I found where you were, I berated myself for leaving you unprotected. You live in a rich neighborhood, and street gangs constantly roll through neighborhoods like that because it's where they can pull in the most money. And cause the most chaos."

I've never seen any gang members in my neighborhood. And I don't see it as being a rich one, either. My father isn't hurting for money, but he isn't wealthy by any means.

"And if there's one thing that thugs like more than anything else . . ."

"It's messing with cops," I finish for him.

He nods. "Yeah, exactly. The Saints had already claimed a few territories across that state. And I couldn't think of any reason not to claim another; so that's what I did."

"That doesn't explain -"

"I'm not done," he cuts me off, making my jaw snap closed so hard that my teeth clank together. "Whenever we roll through a new town, I have a chat with the authorities. Well," he corrects himself, "the main man in charge, not all of them."

My father is the chief of police.

"I really should have been more observant as I'd gone through your house. The only room I'd paid any attention to was yours. And there had been a picture of you two together."

There's only one picture in my room of my father and I, and it's the same one that's been in there since I was eleven. It had been shortly after my father brought me to his house, and it was at one of the many barbecues that we've attended but never hosted. I was wearing a baggy grey shirt and jean shorts that were also too big - my father bought my clothes for me, never actually knowing my size. And he was wearing a plaid button down, unbuttoned over a blue shirt and khaki shorts. And a smile.

I don't smile in the picture though.

I wish I smiled in that picture.

"Imagine my surprise when the man in that picture was the exact man sitting before me, at that desk." He chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head back and forth. "What is usually a professional conversation turned into a personal one, and I had to stop myself so many times from jumping across that desk and laying into him for taking the only person who has ever mattered away from me."

Softly, he brushes his thumb back and forth over my thigh. Squeezing it, he continues, "I offered him my protection, saying that I'd make sure no harm came to him, his family and home, but told him that it would have a price. He accepted too quickly, really. Usually they take a couple days to think it over before they accept. Not that it really matters - if they don't, they come to regret it."

What's _that_ supposed to mean? I don't have the nerve to ask him.

I don't think that I truly want to know the answer.

And to think that only hours ago I was trying to get myself into something like this . . . Really, what was I thinking?

His eyes are on me but not seeing. He continues, "I can't even tell you how close I came . . ." The words trail off. Almost a full minute passes before he shakes his head, clearing it, and gets back on topic. "With every new town, we make a deal. Saints protect the family and home of the main man in exchange for a turned shoulder when we stir things up. That's usually enough. But this being your father?"

His fingers trail across my jaw line, so incredibly softly that if my eyes hadn't been open, I might have missed it. "That never would have been enough. I guess he never thought you were on the table."

My eyes narrow. "First of all, I am _not _just some _payment _on a debt, Edward," I say angrily.

Edward just rolls his eyes, scooting closer to me and pulling me into his lap at the same time, making me realize that – since he's been back – he's constantly been touching me. Whether it be a hand on my thigh, fingers on my face, arms around my back; constant contact.

He may be very different from how I remember him . . . But I guess some things never change. The thought pulls my eyes back to his, as do his firm hands on my neck.

"Can you cut that shit out, please?" He's annoyed.

I almost laugh. Manners? Wow.

"You know that's a bunch of bullshit – nothing has changed for me, Doe. You fucking _know _you're my everything, and I've never given you a reason to doubt that.

Jaw dropping open, I reply, "You stayed away from me for _seven years, Edward! _What do you _mean_ you've never given me a reason to doubt my importance to you?"

There's nothing he can say.

Denial would be a lie, and there not a valid excuse that he could tell me that would make sense for me to come up with on my own while he was away. How would I know he was staying away for my benefit? How do I even know he's being honest in saying that?

"Listen," he orders, holding my face so that his eyes bore directly into mine, "you're _not _just some payment, Doe. But I _can't let you go_, and it's not like Charles would just let you move in with me at _seventeen_."

"_Move in with you_?"

"Obviously."

I stare at him blankly. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly." And he really is.

"I can't just move in with you, Edward," I inform him, shocked that he would think that it was an option to begin with. Is this his house? It's rather dingy for someone who supposedly makes a lot of money in what he does.

What _does_ he do, anyway?

Too many questions.

I need some answers.

"Oh, you can. And you will."

"Is this your home?" I ask.

He shakes his head and then stops, "Well, kinda," he says. "I have a few houses. This is actually a bar." The look on my face makes him laugh. "_This_ is the basement of the bar. It's where I've stayed whenever things have gotten rough in your neighborhood, cause it's close enough that I could get there quick if I needed to."

That's kind of cute.

"Do you _own_ this bar?" I ask him.

He nods. "You wanna check it out?"

I shrug.

"The rest of the gang's here, too. Waiting upstairs for us." I gulp. _Waiting for us_ – great. "Why don't you get changed real quick and then we'll go up."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I gesture down at myself. "I don't exactly have a change of clothes. Nothing is going to fit right."

"Lemme get you sweatpants or something." He hops off the bed, walking over to a dresser that I don't remember seeing before and pulls open one of the drawers.

"They're going to be way too big," I say. What's his problem with what I'm wearing now?

Edward spins around, throwing his hands out and puffing out his chest, "Is that a fat joke?!"

I laugh. So hard that I double over, clutching my stomach.

Suddenly a heavy cloth hits my face. Sweatpants.

"Cover them legs up and lets go," he says, closing the door behind him when he walks out of the room.

**_~ Saints ~_**

"Hurry it up in there!"

I glare in the direction of his voice for a full thirty seconds, refusing to respond, before I turn back to the small mirror in his en-suite bathroom.

On my tippy-toes, I can see just how ridiculous I look in his clothes.

While I do have to admit that I am a shorter-than-average person, Edward is a giant even by a normal person's standards, with broad shoulders and thick, long limbs making up his monstrous form. A form that is regularly covered by equally monstrous clothing.

Clothing that said giant is now demanding a five foot one, hundred pound _girl_ to adorn her own form in.

I look like a soggy piece of moldy – because his shirt is green – and musty – because the sweatpants are grey – bread. And I hate it. "Why can't I just wear your boxers?" I groan more to myself than him.

"Because that skin is for my eyes only. Now get on with it," Edward growls through the door.

I huff.

Why am I listening to him anyway? He can't tell me what to do. I inch the quadruple-rolled waistband of the sweatpants down my thighs. He'll just have to deal with it.

And then his voice floats through the door again, warning me, "And don't even think about pulling some cute shit and not covering up."

"Ugh!"

"Did you just stomp your foot?" He's amused now.

I did. "Why are you being so unreasonable?"

"Doe."

"Edward," I mimic his tone.

"Just. Do. It." Each word is distinctly pronounced.

Yanking the sweatpants back up around my hips, I remember why this whole argument started in the first place.

The Saints – or at least a small portion of them – are waiting upstairs, and he's going to introduce me to them. Do I even _want _to meet these people? Saints are known for being ruthless, deceiving people. While that may not apply to Edward where I'm concerned, it certainly doesn't guarantee the same treatment from other Saints.

But then Edward _is _their leader. They probably _have _to listen to him, right? And it's not like he would let someone attack me . . . Or apparently even lay their eyes upon my _skin_.

I don't remember him being so controlling in the past. "Or possessive," I add quietly, verbally as our more recent conversations run through my mind.

It almost seems as if he wants my attention to be on him at all times.

And even if that's wrong, he _certainly _has _his _attention on _me _at all times.

None of this makes sense though. If he really is as desperate for me as he acts . . . And if he really does want me as much as he says . . . Why did he stay away for so long? I do believe that Edward wants the best for me, but when an uneducated and arguably successful person preaches about the necessity of an education . . . It's hard to believe that they're honestly expressing their opinion.

And what did he really mean when he said, '_I can't let you go_'? My lips silently form the words as they roll through my mind. What if I _wanted _to leave him? What if I _needed _to?

"Doe!" My eyes snap towards the entrance to the room, which Edward is now standing in. I can't believe I didn't hear him slide the door open. "The fuck are you doing? Let's _go._" He holds a hand out for me, exposing the ink on his wrist yet again.

My eyes flicker questioningly back up to his. From the sudden change in his previously agitated – he's so impatient – face, I can tell that he knows I'm curious about the tattoo.

I can also tell that I won't be getting any answers today.

With a second glance at his wrist, I notice something else that's strange. A thick pink hair band. Thinking back now, I do remember seeing it on him earlier. The tattoo had just drawn my eyes right passed it.

Why would he have _a hair band_? His hair is far too short for it to be of any use to him, and even if he _did _have long hair, most men would opt for a black or otherwise neutral color, not _pink_. Could it belong to someone else? That seems more likely. But who?

I look back up at him again, but this time feeling more than just curiosity. I don't think I like the idea of him having some other girl. I just slept in his arms the entire night. When he carried be from my burning, crumbling house . . . The way he'd held me was so . . . Intimate. And he's talking about how he's never going to let me go, and how I'm moving in with him – not that I will give in to his absurd demands.

Although I probably will.

And does she live with him as well? Will I meet her? Will I hear them . . . Together? Would he sleep with me or her? Or would all of us sleep together?

Ugh.

Is he _that_ type of man? Because that most certainly isn't _my _type.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks me.

How do I bring it up in a way that doesn't make me come off as possessive, or jealous? I guess I could . . . "Can I use that?" I ask, gesturing towards the band.

Edward shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. With some hesitance – that makes me scream internally with emotions that I can hardly even identify – he pulls it off his wrist and tosses it to me.

I miss, of course, and it lands on the floor before me. When I pick it up I realize that this has to be a very old one. It's kind of dirty, the pink is very faded, and it's rather stretched out. "Thanks," I say, "I'll be right up. You go ahead – I know the way."

He turns and leaves the room.

I turn back to the mirror as I use the band to tighten the shirt, tying up a ball of the fabric at my back before I follow his path out the door, down the concrete hallway, and up the stairs at the end of it. When I swing the door open, I am instantly struck by a human cannon ball.

"Oof!" I slam into the door, banging my head against it.

Hard. So hard that my ears start ringing and I see stars.

"Fuck, Alice!" A masculine voice exclaims, and the body against mine is quickly removed.

Before my eyes can even open, I'm being pulled into familiar arms. Fingers move through my hair, looking for blood? Swelling? I don't know but I wish they'd stop because it friggin' hurts.

Then they do, and I sigh as I'm pushed into the hard chest of this familiar body. What's his name again?

"Edward– you know she didn't mean to," the same masculine voice as before says somewhat warily.

That's his name! Through blurry eyes I peer up at Edward, taking in his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, and the crinkles at the corners of them.

He's angry?

"Just keep her the fuck _away_," he hisses through his teeth.

"That's not _fair_," a high pitched voice whines. That's probably the person that launched themselves at me. "She's _my_ friend, _too._"

"She was just excited, man. She won't do that again," the masculine voice speaks over the high pitched one now, and my ears are still ringing a bit so I can't even make out what the girl is saying. Edward's body is trembling, and his gaze now holds such hostility that I feel the need to look away, but the man continues on, saying, "We haven't seen her in so long, I'm sure we all –"

Edward cuts him off now. "That's _enough_." He holds me tighter to him, and his woodsy scent starts to drive away my dizziness.

The girl whines, "Why are you hogging her? I just wanna talk to her and –"

"I said, _that's enough_. Not right now, Alice."

"But it's been _years_," she stresses the word.

Wait . . . Am I supposed to know this girl? I turn my head slightly, peeking over my shoulder to take in her small, slightly disheveled appearance. She's shorter than me, although not by much, and her hair is black and cropped short in a way that almost makes her look like a pixie. And her eyes – wide and staring directly at me – are quite possibly the deepest blue I've ever seen.

She's a complete stranger. At least I think she is.

And so is the man holding – or rather _restraining _her. His curly blonde hair, his wide mouth and oddly straight nose . . . The roundness of his eyes . . . None of it is even remotely familiar.

Am I supposed to know them?

My eyes wander over the rest of the room to find that several more eyes are appraising me at the current moment. Surprisingly, while only few . . . A number of them – distinctly female – are looking at me with utter disdain.

Why? Should I know them, too?

Edward did say that I'm not remembering things clearly from my time with him.

"Not right now," I can feel him shaking his head.

"Wait," I say, trying to take a step away from him but not being permitted to. "Were we all in the shelter together?"

"The _shelter_?" Alice questions, confused. "Do you mean the warehou - "

"_Alice_."

I've never heard a word spoken that way.

The room falls completely silent. I almost think I can hear Edward's heartbeat for a moment, but then he speaks again, effectively dismissing the girl.

"Jasper, Riley, Peter, Emmett, and Carlisle," he says, demanding, "in my office."

He has an _office_?

Five men stir – one of them being the blonde one - towards a door at the opposite end of the room, right next to a long blackened mirror on the wall.

I can't even believe that I hadn't noticed how nice this place actually is until now. _Everything_ is . . . _Perfect_. Right down to the hardwood floors.

This wasn't really what I'd imagined when he'd said '_bar'_. Although I've never actually been in a bar so maybe they're all like this.

But I don't think so.

A tugging at my wrist pulls my eyes back to Edward's. "You're coming, too," he says, monotone, and pulls me along through the door that the other men had disappeared through only moments ago.

**_~ Saints ~_**

Now, Edward has always been extraordinarily protective of me – never leaving me alone for too long, making sure that the only time I was alone was when I was either changing or using the bathroom – but he was never this _absurdly _protective.

In a room filled with men he has known long and well enough to permit into his gang . . . In a room filled with men who work _beneath_ him, literally taking orders from him . . .

He forces me to sit on his lap.

Not only is it physically uncomfortable to sit on someone so hard – with muscles bulging in places that I hadn't even realized muscles _could _bulge from – but it is also mentally uncomfortable.

I am a grown woman. I stand at five foot three. I weigh a hundred and nineteen pounds. I have _breasts, for Christ's sake!_

Sitting on a man's lap as if I were a child - as if I couldn't have taken a seat on the couch across the room.

The men in this room are _undoubtedly _dangerous. _Especially _Edward.

But _because_ Edward's here, I know it would be perfectly fine for me to sit like a normal human being.

But every time I try to get up and move away – "Knock it off," he scolds me, folding his arms around me, on my lap, before getting back into his conversation.

I'm so embarrassed by the whole situation that I'm barely paying attention to what they're talking about.

Until I realize that they're talking about the Hounds.

"What do you mean, '_a couple got away_'?" Edward hisses, his face scrunching up. He's so _angry _all the time. I don't remember him always being so angry. "I told you to _handle_ _all_ of them."

_Jake and Seth_.

Handle as in _kill_? Handle as in _severely maim_? Or handle as in instruct them to never return to that particular area and let them go free, unharmed.

As unlikely as it is . . . I sincerely hope it's the latter.

And if it is, I have to figure out how to get in touch with Jake and let him know I'm alright.

"Only two of them got away," the man with light brown hair and light blue eyes says. That's Riley. "And it wouldn't be too hard for us to hunt them down if you wanted us to."

"Yeah – one of them left their phone behind, too," the huge one, Emmett, adds. "Fell out of his pocket while his chicken ass took of runnin' into the woods."

"Do you have it?" Edward inquires, leaning forward in the seat, his arms tightening around me so that I don't slide off his lap.

Carlisle steps away from the wall in which he'd been leaning up against. He seems like a very . . . Relaxed person. This whole time he's really just been very quiet – a silent member, really. He pushes a few strands of his honey blonde hair off his forehead as he pulls something out of his pocket. "I snagged it before we left," he says, and tosses it onto the desk.

I don't know what Seth's phone looks like, but I know for sure that it's not Jake's.

That's not a good sign.

"It was the kid that you'd went off on – the leader," Jasper – the man who'd been restraining the human cannon ball - informs him.

"Sam," I say knowingly, sadly. This means that I can only hope that either Seth or Jake got out. And it makes me feel like a bad person when I hope that Jake is the survivor.

All eyes turn to me. That's the first time I've spoken since we've been in this room. And we've been in here a good twenty minutes.

I blush as Edward turns me in his lap – manipulating my body as if I weigh five pounds so that I'm facing him, my legs falling through the openings beneath the armrests of his chair. His calloused thumb strokes my cheekbone gently as he gazes at me. "I want him dead."

"He will be," Jasper assures.

"And the other one?" Edward asks, referring to the other man that'd escaped as well.

"I looked into it," Carlisle says, "He was second in command – Jacob Black."

_Jake!_

"I want him dead, too."

My hands grip Edward's biceps tightly when he says that. "You can't!" I exclaim, digging my fingernails into his skin.

His gaze transforms into a glare. "I can," he assures me, his arms circling my waist so that my chest is tight against his own. "And it will be just as easy as it was with all the other ones," he says before turning to the other men in the room, "who better have been disposed of properly."

_Seth._

"Yeah," Emmett answers for them all. "We could get those two taken care of tonight."

_No!_

Edward nods. "Yeah. Okay. I gotta make a run soon," he says. "I gotta stop at my place first though and I want a few of you to follow us – or at least through The Fallen's territory. I don't want any of them tailing us."

They can't hurt Jake. He doesn't deserve it – this is entirely my fault. I should have never tried to join the Hounds. Edward would have come back eventually, and under better circumstances, too. Jake's time wouldn't be up.

Jake's time can't be up.

After everything he's done for me, I have to at least try. Edward has never denied me before.

He has to give in.

"Give us a few minutes," Edward says, dismissing to the men in the room, keeping his eyes locked on mine. When the door slams behind the final person, his demeanor shifts. He's more relaxed, but still clearly annoyed. "Why're you tryin' to protect them, Doe?"

"Just Jake," I correct him. While I don't like the idea of _anyone _dying, I'm not going to waste my time trying to save the life of someone – aka Sam – who made no effort to protect mine when a notoriously dangerous gang leader that was clearly searching for me. And the fact that he was planning on _raping _me doesn't make him any more favorable of a person, either.

"Jake?"

"Jacob," I say his full name.

His hands turn to fists on my – which is actually his – shirt at my back. "You know him?"

"Only since I was _ten_," I say, sliding my hands up his bare arms, over his sleeves to rest on the sides of his neck. There's stubble there. Our eyes lock again, and even though I am sincerely worried about Jake, I have to take a moment to admire Edward.

He really is absolutely stunning.

I don't even like facial hair, but the dark, rough stubble that is scattered along his chin, jaw and upper lip only makes his features more appealing. His pouty, uneven lips jut out, and I remember how soft they were the few times they brushed mine when we got to close as we talked. His squinted eyes, his thick eyebrows . . . Everything about him is masculine. Especially his body, which is as long as it is muscular – with wide shoulders topping off a tight torso, and long, thick legs leading to large feet.

He's just . . . Perfect. He's absolutely perfect to me.

And I'm realizing now that we've not only grown and changed as individuals over the past few years. Our relationship has as well. While no less intense, it is intense in a different way. In a more . . . Adult way.

I can feel it in the way he's holding me.

"And what is the _extent _of this . . . _Relationship_ that you've shared?" He inquires, and I don't like the way he asks me. He's angry again, and I don't understand why.

"What?"

"Is this _Jake_," he spits his name, as if he's disgusted by the very word, _"your boyfriend_?"

"Wait a minute . . ." Is he . . . "Are you _jealous_?"

Suddenly his hand is gripping the back of my neck, forcing me to keep my eyes level with his as he glares at me. "_Jealous_?"He asks, smirking slightly. "I have no reason to be _jealous,_ Isabella Doe. I could have you anytime I want, wherever I want, however I want. Without much effort at all."

Huh? _Have _me? What does that even mean?

He's right about having no reason to be jealous, though.

"You, however," he drops the smirk, "might have forgotten that you belong to_ me_. And I just won't have that." He lifts me up then and sits me on his desk, pulling the chair in so that we're still against each other, but now he is looking up at me. "So tell me. What have you and your _precious _little _Jake _done together in my absence?"

"What do you mean by '_what have we done_'?" I ask, not liking the way he asked the question. "We're friends, Edward. When you were gone, he helped me . . . Cope. We would talk and just hang out together. That's it."

Slowly rubbing his calloused hands up and down my thighs, he responds, "So you haven't _fucked_?"

"_What?!" _My cheeks flush with heat.

He stands suddenly, sending his chair back into the wall, pushing his weight down onto my legs where he grips them and getting right in my face. "_You_ _better fucking not have, Doe_. I'll fucking . . ." He doesn't finish his sentence.

Did he just _threaten _me? "You'll '_fucking'_ _what_, Edward? What're you going to do to me? Huh?" I push against his chest angrily but he doesn't even move an inch. "You gonna hit me? _Kill _me?"

"Answer the _god damned _question," he seethes, his chest heaving.

"Have _you_?" I ask, turning it around on him. "Are _you _with someone else? Have you been?" As much as I wish he were, I get the feeling, for whatever reason, that he's not a virgin.

Oh my god, did he . . . All those girls in that room. They're all members of his gang. Did he . . . With them?

It feels like my heart is breaking.

"Yeah, Doe," he says, "I fucked a lot of girls. But that doesn't matter, Doe – it was just fucking. I don't give two shits about any of them."

"You . . ." it comes out as a whisper. What number is _a lot_? Is him not having feelings for them supposed to make me feel better? Because it really doesn't. Not even remotely. "A _lot_?"

And he didn't clarify that he's not _currently _sleeping with someone.

_Great._

"It doesn't matter," he says again. "But _you're _different, Doe. You're not supposed to do that."

"_Oh,"_ I scoff, more pissed than hurt now, "so _you _can _fuck_ the entire _tri-state area _but _I _can't even –"

"_No!"_ He roars. "_You can't!_"

"This is _hilari –_"

"Just answer the _fucking _question, Doe!" He cuts me off, taking a step away, gripping the sides of his head now.

"_'It doesn't matter,' _Edward," I quote him with an unattractive sneer.

With a yank on my wrist, he pulls me into him. His hands come down around my neck, and then his soft and stubbly lips are pushed up against mine, and we're kissing. His tongue pushes through my lips and explores my mouth, touching on all the places he had with his thumb last night. My teeth, the insides of my cheeks, my gums, the roof of my mouth and finally, _finally,_ my tongue. His taste numbs my senses for a moment, and my eyes close.

Calloused fingers move under my – his – shirt and dance along my spine, tickling me as they go.

He breathes in then, literally pulling the air from my lungs into his own body before our lips part, and I'm left gasping for air. I rest my head over his heart as I try to recover.

And then I remember what we'd been talking about before, and I shove away from him. "You don't get to do that," I hiss at him, taking another step away when he reaches for me. I stalk over towards the door, swinging it open. Before I close it behind me, I turn and say, "And not that it's any of your business, but no, Edward." And then I slam the door shut.

**_~ Saints ~_**

"Edward's staring at you," Alice whispers, glancing over at where's he's standing with Jasper and Emmett across the room.

I roll my eyes. "Edward's an _asshole_," I reply, shifting on the couch so that I can sit pretzel style.

She giggles, nudging me with her elbow. "You're different now."

"How so?"

"You used to follow Edward around like an adoring, lost puppy. You never questioned anything he did – always thought the sun shined out his ass." Now she rolls her eyes. "I've always loved you, Doe, but that shit got annoying. Edward's always been an asshole – I'm glad that you see it now."

I laugh. Then I ask, "So were you and I really close before or something?"

She nods, opens her mouth to say something, and then stops.

"What?"

"Look," she says, "It's not that I don't _want _to tell you about everything, but Edward made a direct order. And while he does give me some slack . . ." she trails off, looking at me appraisingly, "He never gives anyone slack when it comes to you. And since I'm not particularly fond of the idea of getting _shot_ . . ." She leaves it at that.

He gives her slack? Why? Is it because they used to date? Oh my god . . . Are they _currently _dating? "You and Edward aren't . . ." I trail off, hoping she'll understand what I'm asking so that I don't have to say it.

She doesn't. "What?"

"Like, _together_, are you?" I whisper.

"Oh _god _no!"

I exhale.

"I'm with Jasper – you definitely don't have to worry about that, Doe. I don't think Edward's ever dated _anyone_, to be honest."

I sigh, leaning back against the couch as I rub my temples. While I'm relieved that he's not currently in a relationship, it's a bit unsettling to know that he has so much . . . _Experience_. "Oh, he has." I hate the idea of being compared to another girl – especially when I know I'm not going to measure up. Would he compare our kiss to the kisses he shared with hundreds of other girls? I don't know if I like the idea of my first kiss falling into a three digit – or even just two digit – slot on his own record.

"Why do you say that?" Sandra asks, her eyebrows scrunching together in confusion.

"He told me, and I quote, '_I've fucked a lot of girls'._"

"He _told you that_?" She asks, and I nod sadly. "Well, I don't doubt it," Alice says, "but I can guarantee you he's never had a girlfriend or even did anything nice for any female aside from you. I think that you've always been it for him, really."

I wish that I've always been it for him. But that's clearly not the case. And with all the girls in this gang . . . Alice being one of them . . . And what Edward taught me earlier, about how girls usually get initiated into gangs . . . Has he slept with every single girl in this gang?! There's at least twelve girls _in this room_, and he has territories all over the state! Has he slept with all of them, too?

I look over at Edward across the room, where he stands with Jasper and Emmett, seemingly talking about something rather serious. He said that I was his '_everything_', but what does that mean to him? Does he just care about my well-being? Does he feel that he _owes _me something, and that's why he goes to such lengths – not just because he _wants me_?

I don't _think_ that's the case. But maybe it is.

If I really _was _his everything, I don't think that he would have felt any urge to have sex with someone else – or even do anything remotely romantic. If I was his everything, that means that he's intending on making me his girlfriend, and then potentially more, so why would he waste his time screwing around with people who _'don't matter_'?

He glances over at me then, and when he catches me looking, he motions with his hand for me to come join him.

I turn back to Alice. I need to get some more answers. "So . . . Alice?"

She looks up from where she'd been picking at her already chipped nail polish."Yeah?"

"How did you get initiated into the Saints?" I ask, praying that she's not going to say that she was screwed in. Not only because I don't want her to be a notch on Edward's belt, but also because I really like this girl, and I'd like to think that she respects herself more than that.

Alice gives me a look but answers anyway. "Jasper and I have been together since even before you and Edward met. That's how I got in."

"Oh," I say, surprised, "Edward didn't tell me that dating a gang member _made _you a member."

"It doesn't always, but Jasper and I have been together forever, and he's been a Saint since he was nine years old – back when Aro was in charge. And since I was homeless –"

"You were _homeless_?" I cut her off, not expecting that, although I don't really know why.

She nods and continues. "Up until I was eleven. Jasper and I didn't have the instant connection that you and Edward did, ours accumulated slowly over the months that he'd bring me food and water and blankets and sneak me into the warehouse to bathe. Then one day he decided that he couldn't let me back out on the streets, and Aro let me stay." When I look up, I see that she's gazing at Jasper with soft eyes. "We haven't been apart since."

"And you don't regret it?" I ask.

"Regret what? Being with Jasper?" She sounds incredulous.

"No, no," I shake my head, "of course not. I meant joining the Saints. You didn't have to do anything that you might find questionable or whatever?"

Alice laughs shortly, without humor. "Oh, I did. Jasper wasn't very happy with the things Aro assigned me to do – especially because of my age."

"What did he make you do?" I ask in a whisper.

"Let's just say that Aro didn't always have money to buy the drugs he wished to sell, so he used me as a form of payment instead."

I'm pretty sure my eyes bulge out of my head. Is she talking about, like, prostitution?

I don't ask her to clarify. "Is that why he's not the leader anymore?" I ask instead.

"In part."

"What does that mean?" She looks over at Edward again, and when I look, too, he's staring at me again. Then he sends a warning glance at Alice, eyes tight and hard, before turning towards Emmett and resuming their conversation. "He's really not as scary as he tries to be," I say conversationally, and laugh at her facial expression. "I've seen him at his angriest and he's never hurt me."

"Don't assume that the way he treats you applies to anyone but you," she says somberly, before she shakes her head slightly as if to clear it. "Aro was a real asshole, mind you, but when Edward found you, he wasn't going to let you go. And Edward knew what Aro would make you do – I mean, you were literally the most beautiful child I think that anyone has ever seen, ever. Way more beautiful than me –" she rolls her eyes and puts her hand up when I try to object "- and so we all knew what Aro would make you do. And Edward just wouldn't stand for that."

I can't imagine that he would. "So what did he do?" I ask, leaning towards her in anticipation. I can't believe that I don't remember any of this!

"I'm sorry to admit that I doubted him – but I mean, he was only thirteen and Aro was twenty-six. I don't think any of us truly believed that Edward would be able to take him out." She looks like she's in another place – like she's back in the past, where this all took place. "But then Edward was brought into the gang at the youngest possible age because Aro saw potential in him – or maybe it was just crazy anger."

We both laugh.

"Edward knew his shit, though – he took him out with his bare hands, and then shot him in the head with his own gun just to be sure."

"Wow," I breathe, leaning back against the couch. "So did he become the leader then?"

"Did who become the leader of what?" Edward asks, coming to a stop next to me. He doesn't wait for either Alice or I to answer before he says, "We're leaving," to me, and pulls me up off of the couch and out the front door of the bar.

I wave to Alice through the window, silently promising myself to put more effort into having relationships outside of my relationship with Edward.

* * *

_**A/N:** It's out a little later than I wanted it to be, but birthdays are big in my family, and today is mine, so I've spent the past 72 hours between family members._

_I can't even count how many slices of cake I've eaten. But that's what happen when everyone is divorced, I guess._

_At least it's all been fun. Now I have finals the rest of the week, so that's fun._

_I'm not entirely sure when the next one will be out, but it shouldn't be too long._

_I gave you - and Doe - some answers in this, so hopefully that'll be able to hold you over._

_A man has needs, right? We all know that's no excuse for cheating, but then Doe and Edward were never actually romantically involved, so that's really not what he did. And what attractive twenty-some year old is a virgin? While **I **realize it would be ridiculous to expect Edward to remain sexually faithful to Doe in her nearly seven years absence, Doe prefers that he had. Is that a sign of something deeper, or is it just her being a teenager?_

_And what's up with that hair band?_

_As always, make sure you tell me what you think!_

_A review would be a beautiful birthday present!_

_All my love!_

* * *

**_~ Madison ~_**


	3. Long Rides, Mutts & the Safe

**Saints**

_Chapter Three :: **Long Rides, Mutts && the Safe****  
**_

* * *

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see the same silver car that has been tailing us since we left the bar, and the white one that's been following _that_ car for equally as long. "Why are you having them follow us?" I ask, looking away from the mirror and down at my lap where Edward's left hand tightens its grasp my thigh.

"We have to stop at my place before we meet up with Rosalie," he murmurs, giving no real answer because I don't know what that's supposed to mean.

It doesn't explain why two cars filled with Saints are following behind us. It does make me wonder who the hell Rosalie is, but he doesn't seem to be in a chatty mood.

He's been quiet so far, and it's starting to make me anxious. Edward has never been a particularly talkative person, typically speaking only when the situation calls for it, but that's around other people. When we're alone together he usually loosens up. The last time we actually talked was back in his office, and that didn't exactly end on good terms. And I can't tell if he's still angry or not because his expression is completely blank.

Is he just thinking? Or is he still upset with me about the whole thing with Jake?

_Jake_. I sigh, resting back against the plush headrest. I still haven't changed Edward's mind, and it's something that I have to do. He saved me from the depression that attempted to swallow me whole for the first few years with my father. I owe him this.

I trace the bones in Edward's hand and his grip loosens on me, relaxing.

I don't think that he's still mad at me. He's never been able to stay angry with me for long in the past, the same going for me where he's concerned, and so I can't imagine that he's any more upset in this moment than I am.

And the reason that I'm upset is because he's threatening to kill my best friend. When we pull up to the next red light, I decide it's time to voice my thoughts. "Edward."

He looks over at me, his eyes tightening as he registers my pleading tone.

"I want to talk about Jake-ob," I try to smooth out my mistake of calling him by his nickname, knowing that Edward wouldn't appreciate it.

He doesn't miss it, though, and the corners of his lips pull up in a devious smile.

This isn't going to be easy.

The light turns green and he presses hard on the gas, sending us through the intersection. "Alright, Doe," he says suggestively, "we can talk about _boys_ if you want."

I roll my eyes. "Edward, stop. I've already told you that it's not like that," I sigh.

My words go completely ignored as he carries on, his hand moving further up my leg as he speaks. "Is he _cute_? Does he make you feel _hot_ when you're alone together? Does he whisper _sweet nothings_ in your ear? Make you laugh when you're feeling down," he coos.

"_No_," I hiss, turning in my seat so that I can properly glare at him. The seatbelt digs into the side of my neck but I ignore the pain, my annoyance clouding my judgment.

His eyebrows shoot up as he sends me a mock-surprised look. "_No_?" Then he nods his head in understanding, "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. You like them a little rougher around the edges, don't you, Doe?" When I don't answer, he does. "You always have."

His hand creeps further up my thigh, his fingers now brushing against the inseam of the sweatpants he forced me to wear. "He's more quiet, I bet. Serious. When he opens up to you, it makes your day – and makes your _legs_ open up for _him_, too, right?" He asks me, an edge to his voice now.

It's getting harder for him to keep up the act.

"Can you just stop?" I snap. "I want to talk about –"

He cuts me off, "I'll bet he's rough with you. Do you like it, Doe?" He turns to me again as we reach another red light, his lips forming into a smirk as he takes in my frustration, "Do you like it when he's rough with you? When he throws you down on the bed and just _ravishes_ you?"

One finger presses against my crotch, and I squeeze my legs together, stilling his movement. "Edward!" I yell at him, shocked that he would touch me that way and angry that he won't let me say what I want to say about Jake. "_What is_ wrong_ with you_?" I hiss at him, opening my legs only to shove his hand away from me.

It rests back on my knee, and he starts rubbing it soothingly, the gesture completely contradicting his current state as he drops the façade and glares at me. "You're the one who wanted to talk about Jakey."

I almost laugh at how immature he's being, but then he presses on the gas again, so hard this time that I fly back into the seat. I huff in annoyance and turn so that I'm sitting correctly in my seat again.

He's so absurdly possessive that he won't even listen to me talk about Jake for _any _length of time. I can't even _mention his name _without him throwing a temper tantrum. I need to approach this in a different way. In a way that will show him that, in part, he owes Jake, too.

I pull his hand off of my knee and hold it between my hands instead as I turn back towards him to study his expression. "Edward," I whisper, nuzzling his hand with my nose and leaning into it to soften him up. I feel some of the tension leave him and the surrounding air as I press a kiss to his palm before cradling it around my cheek. "When my father took me from you, I didn't know what to do with myself," I admit, catching his blue-green stare. "I cried and I screamed and I _hated_. Him, for taking me. Myself, for not being strong enough to resist him when he pulled me into his car."

My head grows heavy as memories of the first year of living with my father flood my mind. His hand tightens on my cheek, encouraging me to continue.

"And _you_," I murmur, ignoring when the car accelerates past one-hundred miles per hour as we pull onto the highway, "for not getting me right away."

"_I_ –"

"Shh," I soothe him, running my fingers through the hair on his arm as he holds me, my eyes sliding closed. "Let me finish." When he doesn't respond, I continue. "I tried begging – I begged him to take me back to you, or to find and bring you to me, but he refused, saying that you were no good for me. I never listened to him," I assure him when he tenses up, "I've always wanted you regardless of what anyone has ever said."

And it's true.

"I tried running away. I got as far as Chalfont – _which_ I do feel is _quite_ impressive," I smirk at him and he laughs, nodding his head.

"It is," he agrees, giving me a strained smile, decreasing the speed of the car. "Fifteen miles on foot is no joke."

The light moment escapes me, though, and I continue, saying, "But he just picked me up in the cruiser and brought me back. That's when he started getting me into all the activities – dance class, swim team, softball, basketball." I purposely leave out gymnastics. "That way I wasn't home alone for any period of time. There was never time for me to get away unnoticed again."

"If I would have know that _you _tried to find _me_," he murmurs, his fist tightening on the wheel. "I never would have waited so long."

"Of course I'd try to look for you."

His hand drops from my cheek and scoop ups my hand instead. Our fingers intertwine. "What else, baby?" He asks, "What else did you do to try and get me?"

I giggle as I remember one way I tried to find him. "I remember that my father told me once that the reason he kept a phone book in the living room is because you could find anyone that you were looking for in it. So I spent _hours _one night calling every Edward in that book, praying to every god that you would pick up." My smile fades, "I knew you didn't have a phone, but I'd hoped that maybe you got one. That maybe you got one and put your number in the phone book in case I looked in one for you someday and tried to call you."

I'd been so excited every time someone picked up, only to be disappointed when it wasn't the right someone that picked up. Then I'd hang up and call the next number on the list.

"Baby," he whimpers. He doesn't seem to know what to say, but then desperation takes over his handsome features and he murmurs, "What else, Doe? How else did you try?"

Our hands rest in his lap now, and I gulp as I realize that this conversation is having an effect on him.

A rather startling effect on him.

An increasingly _large _effect on him.

An increasingly large and _hard _effect on him.

I blush and look away from his lap, instead choosing to stare out the windshield as I speak. "There were a couple days that my father had to go away – back to Italy. His cousin had passed due to a heart attack and he wanted to be there for his funeral. He left me with Sue Clearwater for the three days that he was gone." I swallow as I bring up one of the members of the Hounds, although I doubt he'll realize that Seth is – or, _was,_ I guess, a member of the gang. "That's when I met Sue's kids, Leah and Seth."

His hand tightens on mine fractionally.

"He was about a year younger than me, and she was ready to go off to college so I hung out with him most of the time. We just messed around like kids do," I say, trying to ease him.

"Messed around?"

"_Played_, Edward. We _played _like children do," I sigh, squeezing him back. "We never got close. Not like Jake and I did."

He releases me and I turn to look at him. He's glaring at me, completely ignoring the cars that we're flying past. Cars before us keep pulling over into the right lane to get out of our way. "You really wanna talk about him again, Doe?" He seethes, "cause I'm about ready to hunt him down and finish him _myself_."

"You don't understand, Edward," I shake my head, trying to keep the tears from forming in my eyes. "I wasn't just _lost_ without you – I was utterly _broken_. You _know_," I tell him, "that I've always needed you." He takes his eyes away from me. "And that's not because you're strong or beautiful, or skilled or smart."

Although he is all of those things and more.

I pause as he pulls into a restaurant's parking lot along the road. I never even realized that we had pulled off of the highway.

He turns to me when the car is parked.

I unbuckle my seatbelt then, not even seeming to surprise him when I crawl over the center console to rest on his no longer excitement-ridden lap. His arms close around me and the tip of his nose caresses the bridge of mine as he stares at my lips expectantly.

"It's because you've _always_ been mine," I whisper, my lips brushing against his as I do.

"Always," he whispers back, his eyes closing – his eyelashes tickling my cheek as his lids come together.

"Until _you_," I whimper, "nobody wanted me. Not my father. Not my mother. Not her boyfriend. No friends. No other family members. Nobody. It's only ever been _you_," I caress his stubbled cheek, resisting the urge to close the distance between us and taste his lips for the second time today. "Can you even understand what it feels like to have that person _ripped_ from your grasp?"

His eyes open then. "Yes." He grabs my wrists, forcing me to hold him with more force. "Don't forget, Doe – I lost you, too."

"I can't even tell you how long I cried for you. For _us_." I embrace him then, breathing in the scent of his neck, reveling in how firmly he holds me around my back. "I would fall asleep and wake up with tears rolling down my face. He thought I was depressed about my mother – he took me to therapy. I hated him so much," I fist his shirt as that hatred floods me now, "I didn't tell him about you until I'd been with him for two months. Until I _begged on my knees_ for him to give me _back to you_. And when he refused me, I . . . I _exploded_."

I remember that day so clearly. I can remember it as if it were happening _right now._

"I kicked and punched and clawed at him as hard as I possibly could. I screamed at him as loud as I could - _so _loud that _all_ the blood vessels in my eyes _popped._" My father had been absolutely _horrified_.

Edward's lips press against my shoulder when he realizes that I can't talk about it anymore. They trail up my neck as he gently pulls me from him so that he can continue his path across my jaw line until he settled at my lips, touching them so gently, so softly. Once. Twice. "It's okay, baby," he whispers against them, his breath fanning out over my face. His thumbs rub my cheekbones as a tear falls from my left eye. "I've got you now," he assures me, "and I'm never gonna let anyone take you from me again."

I nod, opening my watery eyes to take him in. His eyes are fierce with his promise, but his lips are gentle as he kisses away the single tear that fell from my eyes.

I haven't cried in so long.

I hadn't had any tears left.

"Edward," I whimper, closing my eyes tight as I remember what started this whole conversation. "After ten _months _without you – after all of my attempts and getting to you failed . . ."

I don't know if I should tell him this. I haven't told _anyone _this. And I know how he is.

He's not going to like it. I don't want him to be angry with me again, but he has to know. He has to know so that he won't kill Jake.

"I needed to get away from my father. I couldn't stand to look at his face. The very _thought_ of him had started to make me nauseous." Every atom in my body had resonated with hate for him. He didn't want me from my conception, and never even attempted to get in touch with my mother from the time of my birth. But when I was finally _happy_, he just _had _to swoop in and fuck everything up. "I started spending more time in Kensington – hanging out with Seth. One day, Sue took us to go check up on Jake's dad."

I don't need to see them to know that his eyes have gone hard.

"He had been in a real bad accident. His legs were . . . Mangled beyond repair. He wasn't even lucky enough to be crippled. Edward," I open my eyes, "he lived in constant pain – his only savior being the heavy pain meds that dulled _everything. _And I knew that if I were to take a few too many of them . . ."

His eyes go wide – wider than I've ever seen them – and his breath cuts off entirely. "Doe," he pleads, practically begging me not to validate what he already knows.

"I had to of had at least twenty pills in my hand. It was overflowing when I reached for the glass of water that I'd filled up and stuck on the side of the sink."

He shakes his head.

"I didn't even get one in my mouth before I heard his voice, saying, '_Now you and I both know that that's not the way out of this fucking mess_'." I laugh once without humor. "You know, I thought I was _crazy_ – which, I mean, considering that I was about to commit _suicide_, maybe I was. But I thought it was _you_."

Their voices had sounded so similar. I'd never spoken to Jake before that moment; having only seen him around the neighborhood a few times. That was before he was a Hound. That came after his father's passing.

"I turned around expecting familiar, accusing eyes – angry at me for almost taking myself away from you forever," I smile slightly when he growls at me. "But what I found were Jake's – ones that didn't necessarily care, but ones that _knew_."

Jake was shattered just as badly as his father's legs in the car accident, just not in the same way. Having already lost his mother, and watching his father cripple and become addicted to drugs that would ultimately lead to his death a short time after . . . He'd considered it, too.

"He was the only person that I could talk to about you. He didn't tell me it was a passing crush, like Sue had." Edward looks just as offended by that description of our relationship as I had been. "He didn't tell me that I didn't know what I was feeling, like my father had. And he didn't tell me that it was all connected to my abandonment issues like my therapist had insisted. He knew what it was like to yearn for someone – to _need _someone to feel like you could just fucking _breathe_." He'd been so close with his father. The accident and medicine turned him into someone else. Someone that Jake couldn't recognize.

I take in a deep breath then, reveling in the fact that the air was spiked with Edward's scent.

"He didn't try to make me feel better about it either. He knew that he couldn't make it better. He knew that all I wanted to do was to be miserable without you, and he didn't try to tell me that there was another way, because he already knew that there wasn't. And, Edward," I smile at him, seeing the hate for my friend dim in his eyes with every word, "he never tried to take your place. Because he knew that nobody ever could."

A knock on the window scares me so badly that I cower into Edward instantly. One hand rubs my back comfortingly as the other rolls down the window. "What the fuck do you want," he hisses at whoever stands on the other side.

"Sorry, Al." Emmett. "But we're fucking starving. Three hours on the road ain't no joke – we wanna go in and get some steaks and shit."

"So fucking _go_." He starts rolling up the window.

"I don't know if you realized it when you pulled off, Al," Emmett interrupts him, cautiously, and I peek up at him to see that he's giving Edward a pointed stare. "But we're in The Fallen's territory, and I thought that you wouldn't wanna be out here with her without any of us around."

He finishes rolling up the window and then moves me so that I'm sitting back on my seat before unbuckling his seatbelt. "You gotta be starving, baby." He says, patting my thigh, his tone melting the seriousness in the car. "Let's go in with the boys."

**_~ Saints ~_**

"You cold, baby?" Edward whispers in my ear, his breath warming my skin, rubbing my trembling arms.

The restaurant is _freezing – _almost equally as cold as it is outside. I give him a jerky nod in response, cuddling impossibly further into his barely covered but strangely warm arms. How do all of these guys walk around in t-shirts in the middle of February? It doesn't make any damn sense.

A glance around the restaurant tells me that I hadn't paid close enough attention on the ride here. There are definitely more than two cars worth of Saints in here. The parking lot is _filled _with silver, black and white cars, and they're all centered around the one that Edward drove, which is mainly black with two silver lines lining the thick white one that goes right down the center. And the restaurant is filled with men and women dressed in black, silver – or gray - and white articles of clothing. They take up at least half of the tables in the room.

I'm seated on Edward's lap in a booth, with Emmett and Royce sitting across from us, and Riley on Edward's other side.

And I'm completely uncomfortable.

Why couldn't Riley just sit at another table or on a chair at the end of ours so that I could have my own seat? This is even more humiliating than it had been in his office. We're in public – this is _not_ _normal_.

I'm about to voice my irritation to Edward when a woman who I assume is our waitress stops at our table, her cheeks still red from the flirting that she'd received from the Saints at the other tables.

She is rather pretty – with long black hair and dark blue eyes. Her breasts are full, and look much nicer than mine in the shirt that I'm currently wearing. I frown as I look down at myself, drowning in Edward's clothes. And then I remember that I'm not wearing any makeup and I feel even worse.

"Well hello there, beautiful," Emmett draws, smirking at her as he takes in her appearance.

"Damn girl," Royce remarks before giving Riley a pointed look. "I know what I'll be ordering."

"Hi guys," she says, both friendly and bashful at the same time, and I look up at her to watch as she turns to glance at the other people seated at the table – which Riley, Edward and I. Her eyes ghost over us, and I can see when she works to hold back her reaction to my odd placement on Edward's lap, before returning to Emmett. "My name is Emily. I'll be your server this afternoon." Her eyes go wide as she takes him in, her mouth dropping open slightly in awe when she's finished introducing herself.

I guess Emmett's attractive.

His black hair is buzzed, and his wide eyes are a soft brown color, almost always seeming to have a playful edge to them, and almond shaped – though they're rounder than Edward's eyes. His lips are full and naturally pull up at the edges, and when he actually puts effort into smiling – like he is right now, at the waitress – two dimples appear prominently on his cheeks. When he stands, he's only a few inches shorter than Edward, and his body is wrapped in thick, bulging muscles that are impossible to ignore.

I understand why she's so enamored with him, taking far too long to take our drink orders.

Edward on, the other hand, does not. He clears his throat, demanding her attention. "We have somewhere to be," he snaps, his tone causing her head to whip in his direction. I trail my fingers through the dark hair on his arms soothingly, taking note of the Goosebumps that appear despite his warmth beneath my caress. He makes no effort to hide the irritation in his tone as he continues, "Mind speeding this up a bit?"

"I'm sorry," she blushes, clearly humiliated. "What can I get you all to drink?"

"Doe?" Edward urges me to order first.

Manners? Since when?

I really need something to warm me up, though, so I order instead of teasing him. "Could I have a cup of tea, please?"

"Of course," she smiles. "Would you like me to bring out some milk and sugar as well?" I nod and she takes the boys orders. All four of them order Coronas. "I'll have those right out for you."

When she leaves, all playfulness leaves the table.

"Did you still want us to handle the mutts tonight?" Royce asks, leaning back in his seat, resting his hands down on his thighs. "Cause if we gotta tail you all the way to Pittsburgh, we're not gonna make it back in time."

The _mutts_? Could they be talking about the hounds?

I try to look like I'm not paying attention to what they're saying, instead looking out over the people seated in the restaurant. A couple catches my eye – because the woman is already looking at me when my eyes wander over her. She has curly red hair, and the person sitting before her has blonde hair.

I assume it's a man, but I don't know for sure because I can only see the back of his head.

I get my answer when Edward pulls me closer into his chest and says, "Plans have changed." I make no attempt to hide my smile at this news. It worked. He's not going to hurt Jake. I press a kiss into the inside of his bicep in silent, concealed thanks. Then he continues, "The alpha is done for. I want him put down by the end of the week – and I want him to go down _slow_," he says, giving Emmett a pointed look.

He nods in understanding. "I can take care of him as soon as I get back to Philly. No problem. But what about the runt?"

I'm offended on Jake's behalf at the nickname.

_Runt_?

Really?

"You're going to find him." Edward is talking to them, but I can tell that the message is directed at me by the way his fingers lock down on my thighs, digging into the flesh there. I'm not going to be able to push him further than I already have. He's come to a verdict. "And you two are going to deliver a message for me," he says, directing it towards Royce and Riley.

So Emmett's going to handle Sam on his own, but Edward is sending both Royce and Riley to see Jake?

This can't be good.

"And what's the message?" Riley prompts him when he doesn't continue.

"That if he so much as _thinks_ about what belongs to _me_," he hisses, his hands locking down on my hips pointedly, "he'll suffer even more than his worthless –"

The waitress returns with our drinks then, and the tension at the table dissolves with the flirty nature she draws from the other boys at the table. Riley coos something quietly in her ear when she puts down his beer, and I decide to take advantage of the distraction she offers.

Tapping on Edward's wrist, I gain his attention. "You _can't_ hurt him, Edward," I whisper in his ear when he tilts his head in my direction.

He has absolutely no reaction whatsoever.

If I didn't know him so well, I might think he hadn't heard me.

"Seriously, Edward," I continue, forcing his eyes to meet mine with the sternness of my tone. "And I need to talk to him, too."

His eyes turn to stone and he leans away from me, stretching his spine to maximum length so that he towers above me. Glaring, he hisses, "That's out of the question. _No_ fucking _way_."

The table falls silent at _'that'_.

The waitress has a shocked expression on her face at Edward's outburst, and the boys turn into statues, almost seeming to be expecting an order of attack.

Heat floods my face.

"Miss," the waitress murmurs, cautious, "are you oka –"

"She's fine," Edward snaps. "We all want the steak with fries and she's gonna have some of mine. Make them all medium. Now _go_."

And she's gone after that, but not after sending me another worried glance over her shoulder.

What is _wrong _with him?

I send a dirty look in his direction.

He notices instantly because he's already looking at me. "You got a problem?" He inquires rudely.

"Are you referring to how I feel about being scolded, dictated or humiliated?" I snap back.

Jasper walks over then with a large duffel bag hanging from his shoulder and drops it on the ground at the end of the table. He sends a nod Edward's way before turning and leaving the way he'd come.

Edward turns back to me. "We're going to the bathroom."

**_~ Saints ~_**

He roughly shoves me into the girls room.

"You can't come in here!" I exclaim, furious at how rough he's being with me.

I'm completely ignored. "Is your dog going to be an issue, Isabella?" Edward asks me, pressing his hand flat against the wall behind my head, trapping me in the corner of the bathroom.

I give him a dirty look as an answer.

His other hand slams against the wall, too. "Answer the damn question!"

"Only if you make him one," I seethe, resisting the urge to yell at him.

To make more of a scene than we've already made.

"There is no reason for you to speak with him, Isabella."

"I need to tell him that I'm alright, and I need to thank him for all that he's done for me," I disagree.

"First of all," he holds up his pointer finger, "your state of being is none of his goddamned business." I roll my eyes, but he continues, holding up two fingers now. "Second of all, you don't owe that jackass anything." I open my mouth to argue but he covers it. "For all he knew, when I was looking for you at your house last night? It could have been to kill you. And he didn't put up much of a fight when I went after you."

That can't be true.

Jake wanted me to get out of there – that's why he hid me until it was time for me to run. He would have tried his hardest to hold off anyone that went after me.

"And third?" Edward's baritone pulls me from my thoughts. He trails his fingers along my jaw line, light as a feather. "If your relationship with Jacob Black comes in the way of ours for whatever reason, and in whatever way . . . He'll be exterminated in the most painful way imaginable."

My mouth hangs open.

_Why?_ Why is he so unforgiving of the only friend I'd managed to make in his absence?

How does he hate him so much?

"So, answer the question, Doe. And if Jacob Black _is _going to be a problem, I'll have the boys take care of him now. And not as painfully as it will be if _I_ have to do it in the future."

I swallow. And then I say, "No".

He nods once and pushes away from the wall. "That bag is for you. They're Alice's clothes – Jasper had them in his car. You can get changed in here, but come right out to the table when you're done."

With that, he shoves the door to the ladies room open and disappears back into the restaurant.

After rummaging through the bag for a few minutes I find a pair of dark wash jeans that look like they'll just about fit, a silver belt, and a white, fuzzy sweater that I need to resist rubbing all over my face when I realize just how soft it is. _And _she has a matching pair of fuzzy white boots that I _also_ have to resist rubbing on my face.

I feel kind of bad wearing Alice's clothes without her permission, but she _did_ offer to lend me some clothes back at Edward's bar when she saw how ridiculous I looked in his clothes. I'd just been sidetracked when she informed me that Edward had been staring at me.

I frown at myself in the mirror. Edward's emotions are challenging to keep up with – changing as rapidly as they do. And I can't understand why he won't answer simple questions when I ask them. Obviously, he's on edge because of whatever these 'Fallen' people are – probably a rival gang – but I can't imagine that he'd consciously put me in any real danger.

The door to the bathroom swings open then, and I'm surprised to find that it's not Edward. It's the woman from before.

Her curly red hair tumbles down over her shoulders and ends at the tops of her breasts, and her green eyes sparkle when she sends a smile my way through the mirror. She stops at the sink next to mine and digs around in her purse as she greets me. "Could I borrow that?" She asks, seeming embarrassed about it, pointing at the blush resting on the corner of the sink.

"Um . . . Yeah, sure." Sorry, Alice.

"So, is that your boyfriend that you were sitting with?" She asks, conversationally.

Is that what Edward is to me? A _boyfriend_? He's certainly not just my friend, but I don't know that I'd call him my boyfriend. That just doesn't seem to fit. "You could say that," I say. "And the man that you're sitting with?" I turn the tables on her.

Her lips pull up into an attractive smirk at my question. "You could say that," she copies me, giving me a sly look.

I laugh at her response.

"Well, thanks for letting me use this . . ." she says, putting the makeup back down on the sink as I finish up, applying mascara to my lashes, waiting for me to tell her my name.

"Isabella."

Recognition seems to darken her eyes but other than that, her features remain the same. "Thank you, Isabella." She holds her hand out for me to shake, and when I go to shake it she pulls me into a rather tight hug.

So tight that it actually pushes the air from my lungs.

"Uh, yeah," I breathe when she releases me, "no problem." She walks towards the door. "And you are?"

She looks back at me with a smirk when she gets to the door, and it unsettles me, although I'm not entirely sure why. "Victoria," she answers, and then disappears back into the restaurant.

_**~ Saints ~**_

It's nearing midnight by the time we get to Edward's house, which is placed close to Mt. Washington and has a beautiful view of the rivers below from the glass doors in the kitchen. His house is as sparsely decorated and furnished as the room we stayed in the night before was.

The kitchen is sculpted by granite, sitting upon Maplewood counters and forms an island between the living room on the other side. The wooden floor is a dark brown and the wall is a deep burgundy. A clearly unused stove is set against the wall beneath an over-abused microwave, and a toaster sits next to it, unplugged. But aside from the refrigerator, sink and dishwasher – all clearly top of the line items – that's it.

No personality whatsoever.

This shows throughout the entire house.

The living room is filled with only a single black leather chair and an insanely large flat screen television. The hallways have no pictures. There's no rugs on the wooden floors in what could potentially be a large family and game room that opens up to the open-floor plan living room and kitchen.

I don't even have to go upstairs to guess that it's the same upstairs.

The entire house is lifeless. Beautiful; magnificent, even, but completely lifeless.

"Doe!" My nickname rings out, and I turn towards the door in the wall next to the staircase that leads to upstairs. "Come down here!"

I follow his voice down the stairs and find a full blown gym, complete with mirrored walls, cardio machines and equipment so large and complex that I'm sure it'd take me at least an hour to figure out how to use it.

What could he possibly need from down here?

"Over here."

I turn to find him right next to me, manila folder in hand, stepping out of a potentially good hiding place that goes back behind the stairs. "_What_ are you _doing_?" I ask him, brushing a cobweb off of his shoulder.

"I wanna show you something." He puts the folder down and leads me back behind the staircase. A string hangs down from the ceiling, connected to a light that hovers over a large metal safe. "Anything ever happens – you need something?" He points at the safe. "Type in 6793."

I do as he says, wondering at the significance of the number. Would he really make it so easy to guess? Why would he make it his birth date? I hit the pound key, listen to multiple things click inside the safe, and open it when he urges me to.

What's inside?

Folders – all with different names on them. Guns and ammo. More money than a single person should be allowed to have. Shiny credit cards. Disposable phones. Hi-Tech phones. Laptops. Tablets. Different cords. "What _is _all this stuff?" I ask, turning towards him with wide eyes.

"Protection," he says simply, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "And you ever feel you need some, this is where you get it."

I don't know what to say.

Evidently, I don't need to say anything, because he pushes the safe door shut, resulting in multiple clicks, and says, "But now it's time to go," as he pulls me up the stairs.

* * *

_**A/N: **Wayyyy too long since the last update - believe me, I know. I've been kicking my own ass trying to get this done over the past month, but so much has happened that just kept me from being able to work on it._

_First, I went for a two week long vacation in which I visited my grandfather._

_Second, I visited colleges, which took a few days, and am pretty happy that I found a place that I really want to go to._

_And third, and worst of all, the dog I've had since I was four years old was run over by a car. Her name was Molly, and she was the cutest, chunkiest little Shih Tzu you'd ever see. It was traumatic for more than the fact that she died. Unfortunately, it was my father that was driving the car that caused it, and I was sitting in my room when he let out a blood curling scream. I looked out the window, literally thinking that he'd just been shot, to find my Molly on her side in the driveway, dying probably the most painful death. The most horrible thing is that she was still alive for about fifteen minutes afterwards as she bled out, and my father feels so guilty he's cried almost all day every day since it happened. _

_And I feel absolutely horrible, too._

_Because of her death, and because I can't get that picture out of my head, and because I miss her terribly, I haven't been motivated to write and I'm not sure when I will be, so I wanted to get this out for you guys since I feel that you've all waited long and patiently enough._

_I'm sorry that it's a little shorter than promised, but I'll make it up with the next one. And I'll come back and fix any errors in this at a later time. I'm just not sure when that will be._

_Thank you for your support, and hopefully for understanding why I'm going to need some time._

* * *

**_~ Madison ~_**


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